


A Christmas Pitch

by facewithoutheart



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Christmas Prince (2017) Fusion, Christmas, Getting Together, M/M, References to A Christmas Prince (2017), Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:46:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 47,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27639737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facewithoutheart/pseuds/facewithoutheart
Summary: Aspiring journalist and actual copy editor Simon Salisbury is tired of being a doormat for the writers at Watford Magazine. But an assignment out of the blue gives him the opportunity to prove his drawer full of rejection letters wrong. Who wouldn’t want a trip to a snow-covered castle during Christmas to write about the attractive Prince of Aldovia who’s about to come of age as King? Especially when the Prince has been MIA for almost two and a half years. It promises to be the career-launching story of Simon’s dreams.Except it turns out the foreign exchange student Simon spent a summer lusting over just might be the Prince he’s now being asked to profile. What could go wrong?(Inspired by A Christmas Prince. Not a literal reimagining. Honestly, at this point it's somehow Red, White and Royal Blue meets Snowbaz in Aldovia with Princess Diaries references).
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 70
Kudos: 90





	1. An Assignment

**Author's Note:**

> Did I create this because of a Tumblr post? Yes. Will I regret this? Probably. Mostly because this means I have to re-watch A Christmas Prince. But self-loathing is the perfect complement to a holiday fic.

**Simon**

“Chris. Chris!” I shout, chasing Watford Magazine’s head writer down the hallway.

It’s only after he reaches the elevator that he turns around, arms crossed and ready for battle. “What is it _now_ , Salisbury?”

I bend over and lean on my knees, raising one finger at him while I try to catch my breath. Chris has already pressed the down arrow, but the elevator takes its time traveling down from the penthouse to the peons of the 5th floor, meaning Chris has to suffer my company for the next 17 floors.

“About your piece,” I gasp. “On fashion week.” Shit, I need to get in better shape. Penny always did say the scones I eat from that hipster bakery in Brooklyn would catch up to my metabolism someday. 

“Spit it out, Salisbury,” Chris commands, tapping his designer shoes impatiently on the stained concrete floor.

I bite back a growl, but my voice is low and gruff when I point out, “Davy said it needed to be 1,000 words, and it’s only 500.”

“So?” Chris raises an eyebrow. “Make it wordier for me. Bring out your inner Dickens for me.”

 _I’d like to punch_ you _in the Dickens,_ I think, very un-Christmas-like. Luckily, I refrain from speaking out loud; voices tend to carry across the cubicles, and I actually need this job.

“Yeah, but,” I stutter. Eight floors left.

“But what, Salisbury?” Chris pulls his arms into his black woolen coat, smacking me in the face with one of the sleeves.

I sigh, only two floors left. “I’m an _editor_ , Chris. Not a writer.” 

He sweeps his long hair out from under his coat and scarf. Between the insults, the last name usage, the fancy clothes, and the long hair, I’m having deja vu. Only the hair is the wrong color, and _he_ wasn’t wearing a coat the last time I saw him. 

_Nope. Don’t do that. Don’t go down_ that _rabbit hole._

“Sounds like that’s your problem, not mine,” Chris says, punctuated by the ding of the elevator doors opening.

Without one word, I watch him walk into the elevator. Then, I watch the doors closely close. I don’t even try to protest. 

This is how pathetic I’ve become.

While I’m contemplating my sudden but inevitable downfall, Penny comes up behind me and places her hand on my shoulder.

“You’re going to do it, aren’t you?” She asks.

I shrug out of her grasp. “Do what?”

She sighs. “Rewrite his whole story and get none of the credit.”

“Yeah,” I turn to face her. “Probably.”

Her whole face scrunches up. “Why?”

“Because,” I say, throwing my arms up. “It’s my job, isn’t it?”

“You could tell him where to stick it,” Niall prairie dogs from his cubicle.

I point at his head, “No one asked you, Niall!”

But it doesn’t deter him. Nothing does. He swings around and follows me and Penny back to my cubicle. I pull a chair out for Penny and look at Niall pointedly. He perches up on my desk. Like I said, undeterrable.

“You know it’s not true, right?” Penny asks.

“What?” I respond, staring at my fingernails.

She grasps my hands until I look up at her. “That you’re not a writer.”

I scoff at her use of double negatives. Then I drop her hands and swivel over to my desk. Grasping a handful of documents out of my filing cabinet, I wave them in her face. “So why does the whole world of journalism seem to disagree?”

Penny pulls the rejection letters out of my hand and throws them into the trash. Well, that’s one way to answer a question.

“She’s right, Simon,” Niall says.

I look over at him, a little surprised at his vote of confidence.

“You’re a good writer. Honest,” He adds, leaning in. “I wouldn’t be trying so desperately to be your friend otherwise.”

I laugh. “Your desire to ride my cast off coattails is flattering, Niall. But it doesn’t make me a writer.”

He shrugs. “Your time will come.” Then, narrowing his eyes, “And I’ll be right there to suckle at the teat of your success.”

“Too far, Niall. Boundaries,” I warn.

Niall grins. I’m not sure if I should be encouraged or scared.

Before I can decide, my work phone rings. “Hello, Simon speaking.”

“Simon, Davy would like to speak with you,” Davy’s assistant, Premal, commands.

“Now?”

Premal sighs. “Yes, now.”

I hang up. Although, I suppose I should have said goodbye first. No matter; they never say goodbye in the movies.

“Davy wants to see me,” I tell Penny and Niall.

Their eyes fly open. It’s not every day a junior editor gets called up to the editor-in-chief’s office.

Before they can comment, I fly out of my seat and up to the 20th floor of Watford Magazine’s corporate offices.

When I get to Davy’s office, he’s waiting for me. “Simon, please sit down.”

I take the chair in front of his desk. It’s one of those weird standing desk chairs, which force you to have perfect posture while leaning against it. It keeps your core active the whole time you use it. Defeats the whole point of a chair, if you ask me, but Davy’s into this shit.

“Is this about the stain in the break room?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

Davy shakes his head, as much to say ‘No’ as it is to erase the memory of my having asked that question in the first place.

“I asked you here because there’s a big story breaking.” He leans onto his standing desk. “Have you heard of Aldovia?”

I scrunch my nose. “Is that the fake country from Princess Diaries?”

“No, that’s Genovia,” He replies. I don’t want to know how he knows that (although it wouldn’t surprise me if he had a thing for Julie Andrews). “Anyways, I’m sure you’ve heard of Prince Basilton.”

I gulp. Oh shit. I’d forgotten the name of his country. “Isn’t he in the tabloids a bunch?”

“Oh yes,” Davy says, tenting his fingers together. “He’s a real flake. International playboy. Scandalous socialite.” He sighs. “It’s embarrassing how much sin the world allows royals to display.”

I’m a little weirded out by his use of the word “sin.” It feels very ‘fundamentalist preacher tells a crowd of locals they’re going to hell for masturbating’ to me, and, no offense, but if touching yourself keeps you out of heaven I’d rather avoid the place myself.

When Davy realizes I’m not going to commiserate over the moral failings of the ruling class, he continues. “Anyways, he’s been MIA for two and a half years, and Aldovia has this interregnum thing.”

“The time between two reigns,” I add, unprompted.

Oh god. Why did my mouth just make sounds? Why am I incapable of forgetting things I drunk-Googled while feeling extra pine-y?

Davy gives me a curious look. Briefly. Thank goodness he’s too narcissistic to consider my unexpected knowledge for more than a second. “In Aldovia, the King must ascend within five years of the death of the previous ruler. Since his mother died--”

“When he was 17,” I add. Again. Unprompted. It’s like I’m under a truth spell.

“Right,” Davy says. “And he turns 22 on Christmas Eve. Therefore, he has three weeks to take the throne, or leave the country of Aldovia without a ruler.”

“And no one’s heard from him in over two and a half years,” I say.

Well, no one who _matters._

“Exactly.” Davy’s eyes gleam. “This could be the scoop of a century. Finding out if the Prince is going to abdicate, or throw off his hedonistic ways in order to give his country the monarchy they apparently still crave.”

“Cool cool cool,” I say, very uncooly. “So what does this have to do with me?”

“Why, you’re going to cover this for me,” He grins evilly.

I shake my head. “Wait, what?"

“There’s a press conference on the 10th,” Davy says, not acknowledging the implication of my objection. “You’re going to Aldovia, and you’re going to get an exclusive with the Prince.”

If I were drinking water, I’d be doing a spit take about now. “Why me?” I plead.

“Don’t you _want_ to be a writer?” He asks.

I nod.

He leans forward. “Aren’t you _tired_ of passing off your words under the byline of idiots like _Chris_?” 

I pause to consider the political ramifications of answering this question honestly, then I nod.

“Well, here’s your chance,” He finishes. For as much as someone can lean back while working at a standing desk, Davy does so. It’s my cue to leave.

“I won’t let you down, sir,” I say, and all that’s missing is a corny salute.

Davy smiles at me, his awful pencil mustache curling with his lips. “You’d better not.”

I must look completely shell-shocked when I return to my desk. Niall and Penny are waiting for me.

“What did he want?” Niall asks.

“Um, he wants me to cover the Genovian-I mean Aldovian prince,” I sputter.

Niall’s jaw drops. “Prince Basilton?”

“Who’s Prince Basilton?” Penny asks.

“You mean his Royal Hotness?” Niall scoffs. ”Only the dreamiest Prince ever.”

“I mean, he’s not _that_ dreamy,” I say. As if he doesn’t haunt my sleep.

“On a scale of one to 10, he’s a 12,” Niall drools.

I mean, they have yet to invent a scale that could appropriately classify his hotness. But sure. A 12 works.

Before Penny can ask, Niall’s on my computer, Googling him. The results are a montage of three to four year old photos of Prince Basilton in compromising positions: drunk at clubs, sandwiched between hot girls. Pixelated parts of him on a yacht. 

Only, I’m thinking about my own personal montage, only two and a half years old. Baz marking up my essays with red pen until they looked like they bled. Long black hair falling in his face during late night cram sessions at the library. The curve of his lips when he insulted me (which, admittedly, was often).

“Wow, he’s hot,” Penny agrees.

“He’s not really my type,” I lie through my teeth.

“Psh. He’s everyone’s type,” Niall says.

To my horror, Penny nods. I’d been hoping to keep her on my side (which apparently means denying the reality of Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch’s obvious sexiness).

Then, Penny turns her gaze on me. “Have you even figured out what your type _is_?”

Oh, 6’1. Long black hair, strong thighs, delectable ass, sharp wit, drinks vodka soda like its water, can spell separate without autocorrect…

“Uh. Well. No. Um,” I sputter, and now I’m sweating. In New York City. In December.

“Did you break Simon?” Niall asks Penny.

“Pretty sure he was already broken. Weren’t you?” Penny winks at me.

“You know, I don’t think calling me ‘broken’ is exactly politically correct,” I warn.

“Are you guys going to fill me in?” Niall whines.

I give Penny my ‘Don’t you dare’ face, to which she returns with her ‘I’ll dare if I want to, Simon’ grin, and betrays me. “So, two summers ago, Simon was as straight as an arrow. Lusting after this perfect Barbie of a girl, Agatha.”

Niall winces. “Agatha?”

Rolling her eyes, “I know! It’s the least sexy name in the world. But if you saw her, you’d get it.” I glare at Penny. “What?” She says. “I can be straight and admit that girl was _hot._ ”

I groan. This story can’t end soon enough. It’s not that I’m uncomfortable with my sexuality in general. It’s just, I’ve only ever had feelings for one guy, so I’m not really at the coming-out-to-coworkers phase.

“Anyways, so I leave town for one summer to visit my long-distance beau and come back to Simon in a full-blown sexuality crisis.”

Niall is practically falling off my desk with anticipation. I want to bury my head in my hands, but then I couldn’t send Penny daggers from my eyes. I’d hate her, if she didn’t also follow up my confession by buying me a rainbow flag of every variety, just until I knew which one matched me best.

“Apparently he met this guy in one of his summer classes,” Penny continues. “I never actually saw him, but Simon couldn’t shut up about his hair, his cheekbones, the fit of his ass in a pair of jeans…”

“Ok, I complained about more than his physical attractiveness,” I plead.

Penny makes air quotes and mouths the word, “Complained” at Niall. He grins. 

My humiliation never ends. Penny owes me at least three new flags at this rate.

“Ok, are we done with the shit-on-Simon-show?” I ask.

Penny wraps her arms around me. “Simon, we love you regardless of how much you want to bone pretty boys with long black hair.”

“Long black hair?” Niall quips, looking at the computer screen. “Maybe Prince Basilton is more your type than you admit…”

I shake my head. “No. Absolutely not.”

The forcefulness of my statement makes Penny give me a weird stare, like she can read my mind. God I hope she can’t read my mind. Does telepathy come with NSFW warnings?

“Well,” Penny clears her throat. “This story could be a real jumpstart for your career.”

“If you can land it,” Niall warns.

“He can land it,” Penny defends, placing her hand on my shoulder.

I appreciate her support, even if I can’t feel it completely. Still, I can’t deny that I’m not at least somewhat interested in the story, especially if it means seeing Baz, or Prince Basilton, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is, admittedly, not my best work. But I tried to keep it as close to A Christmas Prince as possible. Which was painful. Anyways, gonna have some fun with the next two chapters.


	2. A Flashback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback to the summer when Baz and Simon first met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s where we start to diverge wildly from A Christmas Prince. But I felt the story needed some spice, so here we are. We’ll get back to our regularly scheduled program in a chapter or two.

**Simon**

_Flashback:_ It’s the summer after my sophomore year in college. I’m working on a double major in English and Journalism, so I need to take summer classes in addition to the Associate’s degree I’ve transferred into NYU (although, what a joke. Less than a third of my credits counted toward my majors. College in America’s a real scam).

I head to the library, planning to work on my essay for my summer English course and there he is. Sitting in  _ my _ seat. The stuck-up nightmare from my “Science Fiction as Literature” class. The one who shit all over journalism majors the first time I met him. Thankfully, I’ve kept my secret from him, that I’m double majoring and am not just an English major. He already insults me enough as it is.

And now he’s sitting in my favorite chair. The one where you can enjoy the warmth of sunlight through the library windows without having to deal with glare on your laptop. He’s even wearing sunglasses, because of course he’s too cool to sit in the library where any peon can gaze into his grey eyes. His stupid grey eyes in his stupid pretty face on his stupid hot body sitting stupidly in my not-stupid seat.  _ Gee, I’m glad I’m majoring in two different forms of writing. _

I know I can’t  _ claim _ a library chair, but for the past two years no one is ever in my spot when I need it. It’s a comfort on which I’ve come to rely.

So, of course,  _ he  _ would ruin it.  _ Baz _ . What kind of name is Baz anyways?

Well, I’m not letting him keep my table. If he wants it, he’ll have to share.

I glare at Baz as I slide into the chair opposite him. He doesn’t even have the courtesy to acknowledge I’ve joined him. Like I’m not good enough to warrant a simple, “Hiya.”

That’s when I realize the bastard’s asleep.

Not only has he stolen my chair, but he’s not even putting it to good use. I pick up my backpack and drop it onto the table. Loudly. Baz shakes out of his slumber, but gracefully, as if he’d merely been contemplating something deeply and not snoring off his hangover.

Asshole.

He leans back in  _ my _ chair. “Salisbury.” He spits my name like a curse from his mouth. Even so, it sounds lovely in his accent (which I can’t really place, it sounds British, but I know he’s from some weird small country which I keep forgetting).

“I’m surprised you remember my name,” I say, unzipping my backpack to pull out my book and laptop. “Although, it’s my last name.”

“I know,” He sneers. “Why are you sitting at my table?”

I growl. “It’s  _ my  _ table, actually.”

He looks side to side, then underneath the table. Standing, he peers at the back of his chair.

“What are you looking for?” I ask, before I can stop curiosity from driving my mouth. There’s a reason I want to be a journalist, and it’s not because I’m good at spelling.

“For the words ‘Property of Simon Salisbury,’” He says, sitting back in his chair. My chair, I mean. “As I thought. No name plate assigning this table to the world’s most annoying classmate.”

I roll my eyes, but decide not to engage. There are more pressing matters at hand, like the essay due next week. Which Baz should also be working on, but I’m not going to tell  _ him _ what to do.

After a few minutes of finding the assignment instructions, I start compiling the quotes I want to use. I’m not a very organized person but getting ready to write is always calming for me. I begin to forget I’m sharing a table with my nemesis.

That is, until he opens a bag of chips.

I shake my head and refocus on my essay. I write my draft thesis statement, then begin my outline. 

_ Crunch _ .

No. I’m not giving in. I type louder, trying to drown out the sound of Baz munching on salt and vinegar chips.

_ Crinkle. _

And now he’s shaking the whole bag into his mouth. I can’t help but look up. This seems very out of character, for a guy wearing designer jeans. Then, he licks the crumbs off his fingers.

“Could you not?” I ask.

“Oh, am I distracting you?” He asks, and then he pulls out a second bag of chips.

I glare, and he places his hands on the top of the bag. I can see his stupid eyebrow raise above the top of his sunglasses (which he’s still wearing). He’s daring me to object. But I’m not playing this game. I turn my nose back down to my laptop. 

_ Pop. Crunch. _

I sigh. It’s almost worth giving up my table over, but I’m nothing if not stubborn. Another good journalism trait. Maybe some bribery is in order.

“What would it take for me to get you to leave me alone so I can write my essay?"

“You’re already starting on your essay for class?” He asks, before popping another chip in his mouth.

I scoff. “Of course, it’s due next week.”

“But not until  _ Friday _ . You have plenty of time to write it. Why are you wasting your Saturday on schoolwork?” He leans back in his chair, nonchalance oozing from his perfectly invisible pores.

“Because unlike  _ some _ people, I actually work for my grades.” 

Despite the implication, he remains unruffled. “And just what are you implying?” He shakes his bag, and then peers into it, pouting. I guess his chips are almost gone.

“Just that some people buy their way into schools, and others work their way in,” I accuse.

“Huh. Sounds boring.” Then, he tips the bag into his mouth again. 

If he licks his fingers one more time, I’m leaving. But, this time, he leaves after finishing his bag. I can’t believe my luck, until he comes back. Oh, he was just throwing away his trash. I sigh.

“Again, what do I have to do to get some peace and quiet?” I ask, and I’m practically begging by this point.

He puts his head in one hand, looking up at the ceiling. Like he’s thinking it over. Then, he uses one finger to push his sunglasses down, and peers over them; his grey eyes piercing into my blue ones.

“Come out with me tonight.” There’s a mad twinkle in his gaze, but he quickly covers the spark with his lenses.

I scoff again. I’m getting good at my outrage sounds. “Absolutely not.”

He leans in. “Seriously, Salisbury, when was the last time you had a night out? When was the last time you had  _ fun _ ?”

“Fun is for people who aren’t on academic scholarships.”

He groans, throwing himself back in his chair. “You’re so  _ boring _ !”

“I’m  _ boring _ ? Because I’ve had to eschew all of the ‘fun’ parts of my college experience, so I can stay in good academic standing? Because I actually  _ need  _ my scholarship, otherwise I’d either be at some state school picking away slowly at a degree while working full time, or in a mountain of debt by the time I graduated? Because, if not for this degree, I’d be stuck in some dead-end job in my hometown, miserable and unfulfilled?”

Shaking my head, “Well, if sacrificing for my dreams makes me boring, then I’ll be boring. It’s much better than being a complete and total waste of potential.”

He crosses his arms. I’m waiting for a battle. Or an apology. I receive neither, because this is Baz Grimm. And he can only give me one thing. An insult.

“Big word for you,” He sneers. “Eschew. I’m surprised you knew how to correctly use it in a sentence.” He punctuates his barb with three slow claps. Then he stands up, gathering his things.

But before he leaves, he drops a business card on the table, and pushes it over to me. I don’t look at it; I turn my eyes to my laptop, pretending he doesn’t exist. Eventually, I hear him sigh before he walks away.

Fueled by righteous indignation, I spend the next several hours in the zone. When I look up, the sun has lowered in the sky, and I’ve finished my first draft of my essay. I know there’s no sense in editing it while it’s still fresh in my memory; I have nearly a week now to revise and tighten.

I inhale and exhale the stress from hunching over my laptop. My eyes flick to the business card Baz left behind. I pick it up. It’s glossy and made of thick cardstock. Fancy, of course. On the front, there’s just a logo on it, which I realize is some form of initials. There are four letters intertwined, but I can’t really make them out. I think it’s supposed to be artsy. I roll my eyes. It’s so like Baz to have his own logo, like Tiger Woods. I flip it over, and there’s just a phone number. His cell, I guess.

Maybe it’s the high from completing my essay in record time. Maybe it’s the fact I haven’t eaten since breakfast. But sometime between when Baz set down his business card, and when I picked it up, I’ve clearly lost my mind. Because, suddenly, I’m typing his number into my messages, and I’m texting him.

Me [4:26 p.m.]:  **_You win.  
_ ** Hedonism-bot [4:27 p.m.]:  **_Of course I do, but care to be more specific?  
_ ** Hedonism-bot [4:27 p.m.]:  **_Also, who is this?_ **

I sigh. He’s not going to make this easy.

Me [4:28 p.m.]:  **_Simon.  
_ ** Hedonism-bot [4:28 p.m.]:  **_Salisbury?  
_ ** Me [4:29 p.m.]:  **_Yes.  
_ ** Me [4:30 p.m.]:  **_How many Simons do you know?  
_ ** Hedonism-bot [4:30 p.m.]: **_You’d be surprised.  
_ ** Hedonism-bot [4:32 p.m.]:  **_I take it this means you’ve reconsidered my offer?  
_ ** Hedonism-bot [4:33 p.m.]:  **_Does the great Salisbury intend to demean himself with the base instincts of his flesh?  
_ ** Me [4:34 p.m.]:  **_When you put it that way.  
_ ** Me [4:34 p.m.]:  **_No.  
_ ** Me [4:36 p.m.]:  **_But I wouldn’t say no to a drink._ **

I drum my fingers on the library table while I wait. I put my phone in my pocket. Then, I put away my book and laptop. I pull out my phone again. Still no response. Was this a mistake?

Finally, he answers.

Hedonism-bot [4:45 p.m.]:  **_It’s a four-drink minimum to hang out with me, Salisbury.  
_ ** Hedonism-bot [4:45 p.m.]:  **_You in, or out?_ **

I shoulder my backpack, and head out the door, debating. I haven’t had four drinks in the last month, let alone in one night. But I get the feeling I don’t want to miss out on this opportunity. The opportunity to have a real college experience, one that doesn’t take place in a classroom, library, dorm, or dining hall. He’s an asshole, sure, but if there’s one thing I can guess about Baz, it’s that he knows how to have a good time.

Me [4:50 p.m.]:  **_In.  
_ ** Hedonism-bot [4:51 p.m.]:  **_My place. 10 o’clock. Be prepared to stay up until sunrise._ **

When he texts me his address, I’m already starting to regret this. But I gave him my word, and I may be a boring bastard, but I keep my word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I alone in loving the scholar-Simon and party-Baz dynamic? The next part features Baz’s perspective. And I can’t wait.
> 
> Side note: I work in higher ed and, yes, trying to transfer associates degrees to four-year colleges is such a joke. If you or someone you love are thinking about doing this, please reach out to me so I can steer you in the right direction before you waste a lot of time and money.


	3. A Flashback, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon and Baz meet up for another night on the town. Secrets are revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: drinking happens.

**Baz**

_Flashback:_ It all started that summer with Simon.

At first, I invited him out as a lark. I never expected him to actually come. I was perfectly content ruining his overachieving library session by eating bags of chips. I had three more in my backpack, and I was willing to bet that he’d crack halfway through bag four.

Then, he gave me that long sad speech about being all downtrodden and poor. To my surprise, it actually made me feel bad. Like somehow taking a science fiction literature class at NYU while simultaneously hitting every club of note in New York City before summer ends  _ wasn’t _ the best outlet for my rebellion. He made me want more for myself. What’s the line? He made me want to be a better person.

So I did the unthinkable: I gave him my personal cell number.

And the unthinkable kept happening. He actually texted. He actually came out with me. Once I put him in the right clothes (mine, obviously), he actually seemed to have fun.

On my end, I definitely had fun. Laughing, dancing. Completely regrettable amounts of fun.

See, I only like to pine from a safe distance. Where I’m close enough to fantasize without being so close I risk getting hurt. Staring at Salisbury from across a crowded classroom: safe. Seeing the blissed-out look on his face when he dances to ABBA after four rum and cokes: DANGER DANGER.

Naturally, I invited him out every weekend after that.

But true to his boring persona, Salisbury turned me down for more club nights. A studious one, that boy. In fact, he even convinced  _ me _ to join him at the library for a few cram sessions and essay exchanges (which exhausted a pack of my favorite red pens-Salisbury’s a decent writer, but he spells like a kindergartener). 

If my father were here, he might even compliment Simon’s scholarly influence on me. Until he learned that there were feelings involved (again, all mine, obviously). Then, he’d play one of his greatest hits. He’d threaten to disown me.

As if he could.

After all, the crown passes on to Pitches. Not Grimms.

But I’m starting to rethink my almost-not-a-teenage rebellion. I’m starting to think about what Simon said. About the value of sacrificing for a dream.

Because I have one. After all this time.

A dream. 

**Simon**

I wait until after finals to take Baz up on his offer to go out a second time. After two years and a long summer of classes, I’m ready to let loose. At least for one night, before I start waiting tables at Ebb’s Cafe for spare cash before the Fall semester begins.

One more night of debauchery before retreating back to my cave of study and work. What could go wrong?

I text Baz when I leave my last final.

Me [12:24 p.m.]:  **_That offer for another night out still on the table?  
_ ** Hedonism-bot [12:25 p.m.]: **_Depends. Who is this, and on a scale of 0 to 10, how hot are you?  
_ ** Me [12:28 p.m.]:  **_Simon.  
_ ** Me [12:46 p.m.]:  **_Salisbury?_ ** ****

Me [1:20 p.m.]:  **_I took a poll, and the average response is 7.6.  
_ ** Me [1:22 p.m.]:  **_Which is clearly a lie. There’s no way I’m hotter than a 6.  
_ ** Me [1:28 p.m.]:  **_I’ll have to increase my sample size. For better data.  
_ ** Hedonism-bot [1:30 p.m.]:  **_I knew it was you, Salisbury.  
_ ** Hedonism-bot [1:33 p.m.]:  **_Of course you took a poll and then criticized the authenticity of its data.  
_ ** Hedonism-bot [1:33 p.m.]:  **_Nerd.  
_ ** Me [1:35 p.m.]:  **_Never trust polls.  
_ ** Me [1:36 p.m.]:  **_Exhibit A: the 2016 Presidential Election.  
_ ** Hedonism-bot [1:40 p.m.]:  **_I wouldn’t know. Too busy clubbing to pay attention to politics.  
_ ** Hedonism-bot [1:42 p.m.]:  **_Speaking of. 10 o’clock? My place?  
_ ** Me [1:45 p.m.]:  **_It’s a date._ **

Oh god, why’d I send that last text? It’s a date? 

Although, I can’t deny that it’s crossed my mind since our night out and the subsequent library meet-ups. Dating Baz. I never even thought I liked guys like that, but after some soul searching with Penny (aka a four-hour cry-a-thon when she returned home from visiting her boyfriend), I’m starting to realize I may not be 100% straight.

I don’t even know if he’s gay (his clothes are immaculate, but I don’t want to stereotype). Even if he were gay, there’s no way he’d like _ me _ . Even calling me a six on the hotness scale was a stretch.

Still, he’s nice to look at, and, when he’s not making fun of me, he’s actually pretty funny (ok sometimes even when he’s insulting me he’s pretty funny). And he gets me to loosen up like no one has before. Not even Penny.

When I head out the door, I bring a backpack of spare clothes and toiletries. Just in case. I’m not optimistic, but I am a planner.

**Baz**

Simon was right about the poll. The data is clearly skewed, but not because of the responses. It’s because they haven’t invented a scale that can accurately gauge his hotness.

I’m watching him dance as I lean against the bar counter, sipping my vodka soda (I’m not 21, but show me a club that’d deny the Prince of Aldovia a cocktail). It’s as if the crowd has parted so all eyes in the room could fall on him, should they so choose. I can’t imagine why they wouldn’t.

Not that he’s a skilled dancer. He’s really, really not. His arms flail, his head bobs, his legs kick, and none of it is synchronized. His movements are only loosely connected to the beats of the club music. It’s horrible.

He’s luminous. 

I proceed to get really, really drunk.

**Simon**

I don’t know when it happened, but Baz is suddenly very drunk. He keeps asking for more vodka sodas, but I’ve been bribing the bartenders to serve him club soda instead. They are making a lot of money off the two of us, because I’m fairly certain that, on top of my bribes, they’re still charging him top shelf prices for sparkling water. With lime (those better be top shelf limes).

Eventually, I convince him to leave the bar by promising him I’ll come back to his apartment with him. Which, at the start of the night, would have been a dream come true for me, but, under the circumstances, I’m pretty sure I’ll be on vomit duty this evening. Not really the outcome for which I’d been hoping.

I basically carry him to his apartment, and I have to dig in his pockets for his keys, which, kill me now. Thank god he’s basically asleep by this point. Not that that makes me feel any less guilty for the action. Only, it saves me the embarrassment of him remembering my flushed face tomorrow.

He wakes up a little when I start taking off his shoes.

“I’m a prince, you know,” He mumbles, after flopping down on the bed like a dead fish. Very helpful. Though he does kick off one of the shoes I’ve untied.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a real prince,” I mock.

“No, really,” He says, scooting under the covers once I’ve freed him of his loafers. He closes his eyes, and I think he’s falling asleep. Then, he opens one eye, “Wait. Do you not know?”

“Know what?” I ask, before heading into his bathroom to change out of his clothes back into my own (he insisted I wear his clothing--said he didn’t want to ruin his reputation by being seen in public with someone who purchases their outfits at Wal-Mart) (I purchase my outfits at Target, thank you very much). I leave the door open so I can still hear him while I change

“ _ Know what? _ ” He mocks, though I have no idea why. “Seriously, Salisbury. You can’t be that oblivious. I know you don’t follow popular culture because you’re too pretentious. But you do follow politics, don’t you? Global politics?”

I laugh at the idea that  _ I’m _ the pretentious one. “Normally, yeah. But I haven’t really been keeping up with the news lately. Too depressing. These days, I prefer the science fiction we’ve been reading.”

Baz snorts. “I can’t believe this is my life.”

I head back out of the bathroom, and he’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, on top of the covers. He seems to have sobered up a bit. I join him on the bed but sit as far away as the large mattress will let me.

He’s giving me this look I can’t decipher. “You really don’t know?”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about.” Why is he still talking about this?

**Baz**

I’d assume he was pulling one over on me, but the man has no poker face. He’s completely incapable of hiding what he’s thinking or feeling. 

Still, how does he not know? With all the snark and jibes he’s leveled about me being a privileged asshole, I assumed he knew.

I mean, the way he poked fun at any monarchy that showed up in our novels.  _ “There’s no way a monarchical system of government makes it into space,” _ He’d said of one book. I thought it was a dig at me. I thought all of the comments were. Based on the looks our classmates gave him, they thought so as well. I just figured he didn’t care. God, it’s half the reason I started insulting him.

Turns out, he’s just completely unobservant.

Fuck. I’m way too drunk for this.

“Too drunk for what?”

Shit. I hadn’t meant to say that last part out loud.

“Nothing,” I say, and flop back on my bed. Mercifully, he seems to be letting it go.

“You going to be ok if I leave?” I look over, and notice he’s already changed back into his clothes. When did that happen?

“No,” I pout.

**Simon**

I have no idea what that whole, “You don’t know?” conversation was about, but it felt like that episode of Friends where they’re all, “Now they know that we know that they know,” and it gave me a headache. I was glad when he stopped talking about whatever that was.

He seems better now, although he’s pretending he’s not so that I won’t leave him. I don’t really want to, so I play along.

“Fine,” I sigh. “I’ll be on the couch, in case you choke on your vomit and die in your sleep.”

“That’d be a lot easier to do that if you just slept in my bed with me,” Baz purrs, tucking himself under the covers.

Then, he pulls down the corner on the vacant side of the bed and pats the empty space.

I gulp, “Ok.” 

I guess I’m doing this. 

I hadn’t put my shoes back on yet, so I take off my jeans. Baz is pretending not to look, but I catch him staring out of the corner of my eye. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable, so I keep my shirt on, even though I’d normally just sleep in my underwear.

I stay as far to the opposite side of the bed as I can, which is a little ridiculous given that he sleeps in a King. Even though he’s acting more sober now, he’s still way too drunk for me to feel at ease with sharing his bed.

There’s a rustling of the sheets, like Baz is turning over. I have a fifty-fifty shot that he’s facing away from me, so I gamble, and turn toward him. Thank god, he’s facing away from me.

“Goodnight, Baz,” I whisper. But he’s already asleep. I join him soon after.

When I wake in the morning, I’m still facing Baz, only he’s now facing me as well. Our hands stretch out toward each other, almost touching in the center of the bed. Because he’s still asleep, I allow my gaze to linger. His lips are open slightly, letting out small puffs of air that rustle the hair falling in his face. I ache to tuck the fallen strands behind his ear, and then kiss his forehead.

Yup, I’m definitely not 100% straight.

I check my watch. It’s just after 7 a.m. (I never was one for sleeping in past sunrise). Given the glazed way his eyes looked when he would stroll into our 10 a.m. class, I’m guessing I have some time before he wakes up. 

Smiling, I have a stroke of inspiration. I roll out of bed gently, throw on my jeans and shoes, and head out of his apartment to find the nearest coffee place. There’s a shop around the corner, and they’ve got this drink on special, some pumpkin-something-or-other. Given the amount of sugar he’d add to his coffee whenever we’d break from our library study sessions, the overly sweet drink strikes me as very Baz, so I order it and a tall black coffee for myself.

I lean against the counter and sip my coffee, waiting for the barista to mix Baz’s caffeinated melted candy bar when I see him. Baz. Only, not his actual face, but a picture of him on the cover of a magazine. Not a real magazine, but one of those trashy kinds you find at supermarket check-out stands.

Before I can stop myself, I walk over to the girl reading it, just as she places it down on the table beside her.

“Mind if I?” And before she can answer, I pick it up.

“Big fan of the Prince?” She asks, smiling. 

I choke. “I guess you could say that.”

“You can keep it, if you like,” She winks. “I’ve finished reading it.”

I nod and sit down at the nearest table, staring at the cover. It’s Baz at a local nightclub, like the one we were at last night. It’s clearly from a different night; he’s wearing different clothes than the ones I remember. But it’s definitely him. And recent. The title is something like, “Prince of Aldovia’s Wild Night Out” only my eyes are having trouble focusing on the text.

“Pumpkin mocha breve for Simon,” The barista calls.

I drop the tabloid on the table, and leave the cafe. I leave the drink behind. 

I leave everything behind.

**Baz**

I wake to an empty bed, like last night was all a dream.

Except, there are two missed notifications on my phone. I check them.

Hotter Eddie Redmayne [7:45 a.m.]:  **_Sorry, had to head out early.  
_ ** Hotter Eddie Redmayne [7:48 a.m.]:  **_Rain check?_ **

But I don’t write back. Sometimes, you have to admit when you’ve flown too close to the sun. Cut your losses. Summer is over, after all.

I don’t hear from him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Bed sharing! Ok, back to ripping off the plot of A Christmas Prince. I hope you enjoyed the diversion; it was really fun to write.
> 
> Side note: I pulled that vodka/club soda trick on my sister.


	4. A Crisis of Conscience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon has a crisis of conscience. He confides in Ebb.

_ Back in the present… _

**Simon**

On my way to the subway, I stop by a newsstand and purchase every tabloid with Baz on the cover, which is not a small amount. I’m surprised the media still covers his actions as tightly as they did back when I first met him, given he’s been out of the public eye so long that the photos are all several years old.

Or maybe that’s the appeal, as Davy said. The scoop of a century. Even _ I’m  _ chasing it.

Waiting in the station, I hold the magazines in my hand, but can’t bring myself to open them yet. When I first found out that my Baz was Prince Basilton, I relied on Wikipedia and Google to fill in my knowledge gaps. Despite him ghosting me, buying something to learn more about him felt like a line I shouldn’t cross (internet sleuthing, on the other hand, was something all my friends did when dating; it’s not my fault they didn’t date people with Wikipedia pages).

Plus, I’ve never been a fan of tabloids. It feels icky having given my money to these bloodsuckers. Still, I’m nothing if not a diligent researcher, and if I’m going to try to do this profile justice, I need to read everything, even the trash. If only to refute it.

My train arrives, and I get on. Finding a seat, I settle in and take a deep breath. Then I open the first magazine.

A woman leans over while I’m reading. “That Prince Basilton, huh. I wouldn’t kick him out of bed in the morning.”

Her voice out of nowhere startles me. I laugh nervously. “Hah! Yeah. He’s real. Uh. Dreamy.”

I shift in my seat, so that I’m facing away from her. She gets the hint and leaves me alone.

I pour through the tabloids, my blood pressure rising with each page flip of invasive reporting. The stories range from meticulous examination of past actions and outrageous speculation of present activities. This was a bad idea. I’m so incensed, I almost miss my stop. I hop off the train, push through the crowds, and stomp the whole way to Ebb’s Cafe.

When I arrive, I fling open the door (scaring more than a few pigeons. And patrons). I throw the magazines on the diner counter.

“Journalism is dead!” I announce.

Keris raises a pierced eyebrow at me. “Aren’t you a journalist?”

I scoff. “Not anymore. I quit. The whole profession is full of stalkers and… and people with no shame!”

When Keris doesn’t push, I go off, pushing the tabloids in front of her, and opening one up in front of her. As evidence.

“Look at this one, they went through his  _ trash _ , Keris. His trash!” I pull another magazine. “And this one! They printed a list of his stepmom’s prescriptions. Her private medical information! And this one,” I grab another from the stack. “This one is the worst. They released the autopsy results from his mother’s death. Have they no shame at all?”

I don’t notice Ebb’s at my back until I feel her warm hand on my shoulder. “Simon, sweetie, let’s go to the back.” I look at her, and she smiles, leaning in. “You’re scaring the customers, hon.” 

Looking up from my tantrum, I realize everyone in the diner is looking at me, like I’m a bomb that just exploded.

“Ok, Ebb.” I concede, and I follow her to the back office. 

The walk calms me down some. I can almost breathe by the time I settle into the seat in front of her desk. She joins me.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” She asks, leaning onto her elbows.

I sigh. “It’s a long story.”

She smiles. “When have I not had time for your long stories?”

“Never,” I say, looking down at the desk.

Reaching across the space between us, she takes my chin in her hand and gently lifts it up so I’m looking in her eyes. “Tell me what’s on your mind, Simon.”

“Do you remember the summer after my sophomore year?” I ask.

“Was that the summer when Penny went to America?” Her eyes search mine, for a clue on where I plan to take this conversation.

“Yeah...” I wish I knew.

“And the summer you came out as bi,” She nods, as if this is starting to make sense. “Because you met a boy, but you wouldn’t tell me who.”

“I didn’t even tell  _ Penny _ , despite our whole ‘no secrets pact,’” I reassure her.

She waves a hand, dismissing my guilt. “I assumed you had a good reason not to tell me.” Her eyes are soft and lined with care. I reach out and grasp her hands in mine.

“It’s because he’s someone famous. Only, I didn’t know it at the time. For most of the summer, he was an asshole who liked to insult me,” I grin. “And then he became the asshole who I had a crush on.”

“We went out, the weekend before I started working shifts here. Something changed between us. At least, it felt like something changed.” I pull my hands back, resting them back in front of me. “I spent the night at his place.” 

Ebb’s eyebrows raise, and I sputter, “I mean, nothing happened! We shared a bed, but the Grand Canyon could have fit between us. I mostly stayed because he got so drunk I was afraid to leave him alone.”

One of her eyebrows drops, but the other sticks for a half second more, before joining the other in a more neutral expression.

“I know how it sounds,” I roll my eyes. “But honest. Nothing happened. Well, nothing… uh… untoward.

“But he mentioned something about being a prince, and I blew it off. Then he got really weird, and kept asking me, ‘Do you really not know?’” I laugh, throwing my hands in the air. “I swear, I didn’t! I had no clue. Not until the next morning, when I went to get him coffee and I saw a girl reading a magazine with his face on it."

I ball my hands into fists, beating them a few times on my thighs. “And I did something stupid, Ebb. I ran away.”

I let out an exhale that rattles my lungs. “I apologized for leaving abruptly, but he never got back to me. I don’t really blame him. It was just a summer… something. We weren’t even really friends. I don’t know what I was expecting.”

Then, in a soft voice, “I missed him, though.”

Ebb lets me sit in silence for a minute, letting us both absorb my words. “Why is this weighing on you now?” She asks.

Of course. The (comparatively) easy part is over. This next part…

“Because my boss asked me to write about him.”

“Oh,” Ebb says, though she’s still keeping her face neutral. “And, are you going to?”

I shake my head, “Yes. Then, I nod, “No.”

I bury my head in my hands. “I don’t know!”

“You care for this boy, don’t you?” Ebb asks.

Keeping my face hidden, I nod. She pulls my hands away from my head.

“Simon, conduct a thought experiment with me.”

I take a shaky breath, and say, “Ok.”

“If you don’t write this story, who will?”

Shrugging my shoulders, “Probably one of the other writers on staff.”

“So, someone who doesn’t know him.”

“Yeah.”

Ebb pauses. “What about if you wrote this story?”

“I mean, I can’t. Can I?” Thinking about it makes my head and heart ache, and I’m not sure which option is causing the pain.

“But if you did, would you treat him with care?”

“Of course!” 

“Would you keep his most precious secrets safe, and only reveal the ones he’d be comfortable sharing?”

I scoff. “Obviously.”

“Would you make sure to give him a fair chance at making his story known on his terms, and only use reputable sources to give background information?”

“Ebb, why are you asking me--”

“Almost there, Simon,” She raises her index finger. “Now, if you didn’t write this story, if they gave this story to another writer on staff, could they promise the same things?”

Oh.

People don’t give Ebb enough credit. 

I think she can tell she’s gotten through to me, the way her smile lights up her face. “So, Simon. What are you going to do?”

One week later, I’m on a transatlantic flight to Aldovia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, still not really following the plot of A Christmas Prince too closely*, but I wanted Simon to consider the ethics of the situation before jumping in to satisfy his own ambition. 
> 
> *I have a feeling I'll be saying this at the end of every chapter...


	5. A Stolen Taxi & A Press Conference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon travels to Aldovia (finally).

**Simon**

I blink at my assigned seat in shock. This may be my first international flight, but I thought I knew what to expect: crying babies, sharing elbow rests with overweight middle-aged men, an adolescent using the back of my seat for soccer practice. And that was the best case scenario. I’ve seen the tweets about people who  _ clip their toenails _ on planes, for god’s sake.

So how in the world did I end up in first class, with a complimentary glass of champagne waiting for me?

A tap on my shoulder reminds me that I’m blocking the aisle, so I stow my carry-on bag and slide to the window seat. I subconsciously send my thanks to Watford Magazine’s travel agent, Christine, for the upgrade. I guess it pays to be friendly to the support staff (she even gave me her cell number in case of emergencies; what a dedicated employee!).

One movie (The Princess Diaries) and three glasses of champagne later, I glance out at the Atlantic Ocean and consider my circumstances. After growing up in foster care, carting my belongings in a garbage bag from temporary home to temporary home, I’m traveling first class to a different continent, for my first real writing gig, which happens to be covering royalty. 

I’m pretty sure childhood-me would say I’m living the dream. Current-me certainly agrees.

For the first time since I’ve been handed this assignment, I sleep soundly.

I wake up on the wrong side of the plane, metaphorically-speaking. My mouth is dry, my head aches, and I think my feet are swelling in my shoes. I’ve committed the cardinal sin of international travel: drinking too much free bubbly. 

Standing in the taxi line, I bounce to stay warm. It’s colder than I expected, which helps my hangover some, but I feel gross in yesterday’s clothes, and all I want is a nice hot shower at my hotel. 

The couple in front of me step into their cab, and I mutter, “Thank god,” as I move to the front of the line. I raise my scarf over my nose and mouth and let my exhales warm up my face for a minute.

The attendant calls my taxi to the curb. I turn back to gather up my belongings, when a hard shoulder pushes me to the side. Recovering from the shove, I look up to see someone other than me opening the door to  _ my _ taxi.

“Hey! That’s my cab, you asshole!” I yell, in full-on New Yorker mode. 

The stranger looks up and says, “Sorry!” Like a limp noodle. Then he slams the door shut.

“Yeah, you’ll be sorry!” I call back. 

He lowers the window, giving me this ‘What are you going to do about it?’ shrug, and I flinch forward. The attendant places a hand on my shoulder, and waggles his finger. Then points at a taxi pulling up.

I sigh, and glance back at the line. “Can you believe that guy?” Several of my fellow queue-ers give me sympathetic looks.

An old lady tuts, “Youths these days.”

I don’t point out to her that I am, also, a youth, but I give her an appreciative head nod. Then, I get into my alternate taxi, and head to my hotel.

Later that afternoon, I’m loaded up into a fleet of vans with the other reporters invited to the press conference. I sit next to an older man, who has an experienced air about him. My excitement and anxiety must leak through my recently purchased “reporter clothes”, because he leans into me conspiratorially.

“First time covering the royals?” He asks.

“First time covering anything,” I whisper. Then, a bit louder. “Got any advice?”

He looks me up and down, and then says, “Pick a new career.” But then he winks, and I realize it’s more tease than judgement.

Before I can ask why, we turn a sharp corner and there it is. The royal castle of Aldovia. If I didn’t look like a newbie before, I look like one now as my jaw drops open at the sight. It looks like a Disney castle, complete with towers, balconies, and…

“Is that a fucking moat?” I ask out loud, before I can stop myself.

My neighbor slaps his hand on my shoulder, and laughs, “Welcome to the big leagues!” Then he shakes my shoulder a bit, smiling good-naturedly. I grin back.

The reporters are assigned a handler, who corralls us past a catering company unloading for what I assume will be a large fancy party. To which we are clearly not invited, if the look on the handler’s face tells me anything. Reporters are not held in his high esteem. 

We’re settled into a large room with fold-out chairs. A podium with the Aldovian crest on it holds center stage, and a series of flags stand to either side, symbolizing the different ruling families of the country. I recognize one of the flags; it has the four initials I saw on Baz’s business card. My stomach drops when my brain makes the connection.

It dawns on me that I still have his cell number. I could have texted and given him a heads up that we may see each other (well, we’d have to, if I’m able to secure an interview). It seems like the kind of thing I should have done, but what would I have said?

_ Hey! I know we haven’t spoken in two years because you never texted back after you got drunk and I slept in your bed then left without saying goodbye, but guess what! I’m in your home country. That you rule. Or, well, you might rule if you accept the throne. Which, surprise! I know that now! About that, can I get an interview? Oh yeah, I’m a journalist. You know, Satan's profession?  _

While I’m writing this elaborate, sarcastic, and never-to-be-sent text message in my head, a staffer takes the podium and announces the press conference will begin in 20 minutes. There’s some slight rumbling from the reporters; the conference was scheduled to begin 10 minutes ago. 

30 minutes later, there’s still no sign of the Prince. Baz. Prince Basilton. My mind still doesn’t know what to call him. Someone in a suit takes the podium, and I can tell two things about him: one, he’s clearly someone in charge, and two, he does not want to be here.

I brace myself for bad news, and make eye contact with my car buddy. He nods; he senses it, too.

“May I have your attention?”

The room quiets.

He clears his throat. “I’m afraid I must announce that today’s scheduled press conference with Prince Basilton has been cancelled.”

“When will it be rescheduled?” My car buddy asks.

“It, um. It will not be rescheduled. Prince Basilton is… unavailable at this time.”

The room erupts with frustration. There’s a chorus of “Are you kidding me?’s” and “I can’t believe it’s” and my personal favorite: “That Prince-y bastard’s just avoiding us!” I don’t appreciate the sentiment, but I do enjoy the bravado. 

I’m sitting silently, while the questions rain out on top of this poor man, who seems resolved to just take the abuse in dignified silence.

One clear voice rings out, “Is the Prince abdicating the throne?”

This warrants a response. “I can assure you, his coronation is very much on schedule and will take place at the annual Christmas Eve Ball.”

Based on the response from the audience, no one is inclined to believe this. Hell, I’m not ever sure the official press official believes it.

I raise my hand.

The official calls on me. “Yes, the young gentleman with curly hair whose stomach keeps growling?”

Shit. I didn’t think anyone had noticed. I ask my question anyways. “Is there any chance at getting an interview with the Prince?”

The official gives me this look like he’s never encountered a stupider question. I shrug. My car buddy elbows me, and I think he’s going to chastise me for my impertinence. Instead, he whispers, “Nice try; but the Prince hasn’t granted an interview in years.”

“I had to shoot my shot,” I whisper back, and he chuckles. “How come you didn’t try to ask a question?"

He shrugs back. “I know when I’m beaten, son. No point in wasting my breath on a lost cause.” He pauses. “Besides, I’ve only been placed on Royal duty as punishment for not revealing a source for a high-profile corruption case. This Royal stuff is soft news. I’m just biding my time until I can get back to reporting on things that  _ matter. _ ”

Before I can dig further into his back story, we’re being ushered out of the small room and over to the vans. Except, I can’t go home. Not yet. A small voice in my head says,  _ Not before I’ve seen Baz _ . So when I see a pair of caterers bringing in a large covered dish, I step behind them, out of sight from our press handlers, and sneak into the castle.

I reluctantly leave the caterers behind (the food smells delicious), and wander aimlessly through the castle. The initial high of adrenaline fades. As I remove my press badge and shove it in my pocket, I’m starting to wonder just what my game plan is here--run into the Prince? Ask him my questions? Leave?--when I turn the corner and find a row of antique suits of armor. 

I never could resist a good sword, so I lean up close to the nearest statue and bring my fingers up to feel the cool length of metal.

And promptly get myself straight into trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter this time, but I'm finally back copying the plot of A Christmas Prince more closely. Also, I know he was a bit character who didn't come back in the actual movie, but I kind of want car buddy to have a bigger role. We'll see!


	6. A New Tutor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon accidentally becomes Princess Mordelia's tutor, sees Baz for the first time, and, of course, breaks a priceless antique.

**Simon**

“Excuse me, sir. Don’t touch that!” A voice yells at me.

I drop my hands from the sword immediately. “Oops! Sorry!” I grin at the discipliner. It’s an older woman with a firm but kind look to her. Slightly frazzled as well, so I wager that she’s been working for the royals for a long time. “Couldn’t resist the sword,” I quip.

“Oh, you’re American,” She says.

I try to raise one eyebrow, but end up raising both. “Yeah?”

She nods, as if figuring something out. “You must be the new American tutor for Mordelia.”

I wonder,  _ What’s a mordelia and why would someone need a tutor about things that are American? _ And before I can stop myself, I say, “Yes! That’s me.”

She introduces herself. “I’m the household Chief of Staff, Vera.” Furrowing her eyebrows at me, she says, “And you’re two weeks early. I thought the agency said the next tutor couldn’t start until after the holidays.”

I shrug. “My last assignment ended early, so I thought I’d come help?"

“Was that a question or an answer?”

“Both?”

Shaking her head, “Well, you’re here now. And Mordelia could use the extra company. What was your name again? The agency hasn’t sent your paperwork over yet.”

“Simon Salisbury,” I say, extending my arm and for a handshake.

She stares at it like I just offered her my foot. “We don’t shake hands here, Mr. Salisbury. You’ll need to bow when you meet Lady Daphne.”

My eyes widen. “Meet? Lady Daphne? Me?” It’s what I want, obviously, but somehow now that it’s happening, my stomach is in knots.

“Of course.” Vera eyes me closely. “You wouldn’t expect to be entrusted with the education of the crown’s eldest daughter without first meeting her mother, would you?”

I run my hands through my hair. “I suppose not.”

She nods curtly. “Follow me, then.”

Resisting the urge to squeak “Right now?” I follow Vera as closely as possible down the hallways, taking care not to step on her heels. The last thing I need right now is to get lost. I’m not sure I can pull off another fib. I’m actually shocked I pulled off this one. 

Vera leads me to a tall set of double wooden doors. They definitely look like they open into an important room. I extend my hand to take one of the handles, and Vera stops me.

“Did the agency explain why this vacancy came up so abruptly?”

“No, ma’am. They didn’t.” 

Sighing. “I suppose they wouldn’t. But I must warn you. Mordelia has… a rebellious streak. You’re not squeamish are you?”

I clear my throat. “I mean, I guess it depends? What are we talking about?” I laugh. “Did she put a bloodied goat's head in the last tutor’s bed?”

Vera tilts her head. “I thought the agency  _ didn’t _ tell you why the last tutor left?”

She stares at me intently, then opens the doors.

Inside is a large conference room. If a conference room can still be called that when it’s covered in gold accents and decked out with expensive antiques. I know I should be paying attention to the scenery for my story, but for the moment all I can see is an older woman arguing with someone who looks strangely like…

“Basilton, you’ve had plenty of time to think. Have you really not come up with an answer for Malcolm?” The woman asks.

“I admit, it’s not the most convenient--” He cuts off when he notices they aren’t alone.

Turning toward the intruders (me and Vera, of course, but mostly me), Lady Daphne and Baz nod politely. I look for a flicker of recognition in Baz’s face, but find none. Could Baz really not remember me?

**Baz**

I thought I saw him this morning when I stole that taxi. But it couldn’t be him. Why would Simon Salisbury be in Aldovia? I figured it was my jet-lagged brain playing tricks on me. Echoes of the dreams I had last night.

Yet, here he is, definitely  _ not _ a dream (though he is dream _ y _ ). And he’s standing in my royal conference room. With his jaw nearly on the floor. 

Christ, I forgot the man has no poker face. 

I try to give him a look like,  _ Play it cool, Simon. We shouldn’t know each other _ . But either he can’t or won’t read my hint.

Vera clears her throat. “Your royal highnesses, may I present to you Mr. Simon Salisbury? He’s to be Princess Mordelia’s new tutor.”

_ Tutor? _ I raise my eyebrow. Then again, what does one do with an English degree these days?

While I’m pondering Simon’s career choices, he bows to my stepmother. Sweet lord, it’s worse than his dancing. He bends completely in half, then almost falls over because of course he has no balance. Then, when he stands back up, he actually salutes. It’s terrible.

I’m enraptured all over again. 

Fuck me.

Lady Daphne happens to be the kindest person in the world, despite being married to my grump of a father, having my rebellious ass as a stepson, and living with Mordelia’s teenage angst, all while being five months pregnant with twins. So, her saintly attributes well spoken for, she gently inclines her head toward Simon despite his embarrassing bow, and greets him.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Salisbury.”

He gives her his 3,000 lumen smile, and I can sense the tension of his earlier faux pas melt off Daphne’s shoulders. How could I have ever doubted the charm of Simon Salisbury, royal traditions or not?

All eyes in the room turn to me, and I muster a slight head nod as well. “Welcome,” I grunt, but offer no more in the way of friendliness. Daphne gives me a slight glare (which, for her, is a full-on growl), but Vera lets me off the hook for my surliness. Good woman.

Vera nods at Lady Daphne. “I was just about to show Mr. Salisbury to his room.” Turning to Simon, she asks, “Where are your things?”

“Oh. At the inn," He answers. His eyes keep darting to me. He must be surprised to see me, given that he’s finally learned what I’d always feared (and hoped) he would know: who I am.

“Surprised you found a room with all the press in town,” I can’t help myself from adding to the conversation. “Bloodsuckers, the lot of them.”

“Oh yeah. Bloody goblins,” He grins. “Although, I don’t know if you could say  _ all _ of them are bad.”

Filling my stare with ice, “I could, actually.”

Before he can respond, the door behind me bursts open.

“Basil!” Mordelia squeals. 

I draw my arms up to my chest and lean back. “Who are you, and what have you done with my sister?”

She rolls her eyes and mimics my pose. “Who are  _ you _ , and what have you done to my brother?”

Fake scoffing, I continue, “Are you allowed to speak to his royal highness, heir to the throne, in that subordinate tone?”

Clicking her tongue, “ _ No _ , I was speaking to whatever it is that has taken up residence on the royal heir’s chin.”

I stroke my beard, “I thought it made me look distinguished.”

“It makes you look like you’ve been foraging in the dumpster for treasure.”

I catch Simon choke a laugh into his hand, and I put on my frowniest face until he looks sufficiently chastised.

Daphne whispers so only the family members can hear, “It does make you look a bit like a homeless Santa Claus.”

“Is this what I can expect from my royal homecoming?” I tut. “No wonder I so rarely find occasion to visit.”

Throwing her arms around my waist, Mordelia pleads, “I’m sorry Basil! Please forgive me. I’ll never insult your awful facial hair again!” Then, turning to the door, she finally notices our company. “Who is  _ he _ ?”

“Oh, uh. I’m Simon. I’m here to tutor you. On America,” Simon says.

I roll my eyes, and look down to catch Mordelia doing the same.

“I know that look,” I warn her, privately.

She gives me her evil grin, then turns her darkest glare on Simon. Oh god, she’s awakened to the scent of fresh meat. He’s going to be greeted in bed by a bloodied goat head tomorrow morning, isn’t he?

Vera catches the shift in room temperature, and expertly deflects. “Well, Mr. Salisbury. I should accompany you to your room so we can complete your hiring paperwork. There’s a stack of NDAs with your signature required.”

“Oh! Ok,” He blusters, and turns to give me a stare that will haunt my wet dreams. One of confusion, happiness, and, dare I hope, longing?

Then, he backs straight into our 15th century Ming vase, causing it to shatter on the floor. So much for the Salisbury charm offensive.

He freezes, staring at the broken pieces scattered at his feet. “Oh no,” He whispers.

Oh yes, I groan internally. Classic Simon. Breaking something priceless with his lack of consideration.  _ Like my heart _ , my teenage inner self adds.

He’s ushered out by Vera before he can do any more damage. At least, that’s what she thinks.

**Simon**

As is my custom, I lie awake in bed thinking of everything embarrassing I’ve done that day. Just to give my dreams that jolt of shame and guilt they’re so used to. And boy, do I have a lot of fuel to burn today.

Because just as my head hits my pillow, it dawns on me. Vera meant I’m Mordelia’s tutor  _ from _ America. Not her tutor  _ on _ America. 

Kill me now, please.

Just when I’m ready to sink into the relief of my nightmares, there’s a soft knock at the door.

“Simon?” A voice whispers. “It’s Baz. Let me in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger! But I figured, better share another chapter rather than wait to finish Simon and Baz's reintroduction?
> 
> Also, I've restarted my tumblr: [@facewithoutheart](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/facewithoutheart) and I'm so sorry I am An Old™ and don't really know what I'm doing. Be patient with me while I remember what it is to be young and full of memes?
> 
> PS: Simon realizing that Vera means he's a tutor who happens to be American, rather than being a tutor on all things American, is actually what I did when re-watching A Christmas Prince. I literally wrote down in my notes (because I am a nerd who keeps notes in order to write fanfiction), "Why does she need a tutor on America?" and then three days later said, "OMG she meant he's FROM America!" Thus proving definitively that I am Simon and he is me.


	7. A Late Night Rendezvous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The "thrilling" conclusion to last chapter's cliffhanger.

**Baz**

Other than the thin excuse to get our stories straight, I’d like to say I have no idea what possesses me to knock on Simon’s door later that night. But I do. It’s the chance to see him again, in whatever capacity.

Except, it never occurred to me that that capacity might be him in only a pair of boxers, which is how he greets me. As if he has no sense of propriety or dignity or my flustered feelings.

“Put some clothes on,” I sputter, when he opens the door in this undressed state, arms bracketing the entrance to his room.

Rubbing his eyes with one fist while keeping the other firmly on the door frame, he blinks at me, “I  _ am _ wearing clothes?”

“Barely,” I eye roll at him, pushing past his blockade so I can secure the door firmly behind us. No one needs to see this exchange. 

Once I’m in the room, I have no idea where to go, so I lean against a wall, debating what to do with my arms. Mercifully, he puts on a shirt while I settle on placing my hands in my pockets. Then, we stare each other down. 

He breaks first. “Ah hah! So you  _ do _ remember me?”

I’m going to get a permanent migraine if I keep rolling my eyes at him, so I refrain. “Of course I remember you.” Then, I bite my tongue because I’m close to giving away the depth of my memory. “As if I could forget the stuck-up nerd who partied with me twice and got so drunk the second time that he had to escape the next morning without a goodbye.”

God, even that confession borders on intimate.

He smirks. “As I remember, it was  _ you _ who got drunk that night, Baz.”

The audacity of him remembering the truth! “You’ll refer to me as ‘Your Highness’ from now on,” I command to regain control of the situation, even though I know playing the Prince card makes me a total twat.

But, true to Simon’s nature, he remains unimpressed. “In public, sure,” He shrugs. “But good luck enforcing that one in private.” Then, because he hasn’t undone me enough, he winks.

Unlike him, I’ve honed my poker face over countless royal events, so I manage to keep my stoic exterior while a storm wages inside. “Fine,” I offer, crossing my arms and keeping my eyes fixed with his (a dangerous game, but much less so than allowing them to roam over his still mostly indecent attire). 

Once I’ve recovered my wits, I clear my throat. “So. I guess my secret is finally out.”

He tilts his head to the side. “What secret?”

Oh. My. God. Why has the higher power I don’t believe in sent him here to test me? “You can’t be this stupid, Salisbury.”

“Oh!” His eyes shoot open. “Oh, yeah. Well, I already knew that, didn’t I?”

My anger surges from 0 to 11 in the space of a second. “Wait, you knew?!” I shout, closing the distance between us and pointing my finger square in his chest. “You told me you didn’t.  _ You said _ \--”

“Baz! Chill,” He soothes, placing his hands on my shoulders and squeezing. My heart copies the motion, so I shove his hands off. Like everything I do, it doesn’t seem to phase him. I take deep breaths while still seething, though my heart rate does manage to slow down some.

“Come on, sit. Please. Let me explain,” He pleads, taking a spot on the bed, patting the space beside him.

I find the farthest chair from his location and perch on it instead, crossing my arms again.  _ Take that. _

He rolls his eyes at me, then explains. “Honestly, Baz. I didn’t know your secret at the time. I didn’t learn who you were until later.”

“How much later?” I ask, one eyebrow raising.

Wincing, “The next day.”

Realization dawns on me. “The next day, as in?”

He nods. “As in the reason I didn’t come back to your apartment after I’d left to grab us some coffee.”

Oh.  _ Oh, _ I think. I wait for him to continue.

Shoving a hand in his hair, angrily messing the curls, he confesses, “I don’t know how to explain without making this awkward. Without--” He gives me a look that stops and starts my heart. Then stops it all over again. I’m not sure I’ll make it through this conversation without a heart attack.

_ Put me out of my misery, Simon Salisbury _ , my subconscious begs.

But he does no such thing. 

“I want to make this work,” He says. And the smallest part of me thinks he means us. Then he continues. “Me being Mordelia’s tutor.”

I nod, dumbly. Moving forward, I have a feeling everything I do around Simon will be completely and utterly dumb.

“Of course,” I say. “It’s important that Mordelia has a good tutor.”

Like I said. Dumb.

“Well,” I say. “I’m glad we’ve got that settled. Until today, we’ve never met. That summer never happened. And, uh.” I clear my throat. “I’ll make sure Mordelia doesn’t put any bloodied livestock in your bedroom.”

Before he can react to the utter stupidity I’m word-vomiting, I turn and leave his bedroom.

**Simon**

I stare at the closed door after Baz leaves, dumbstruck.

I don’t know why I couldn’t just tell him. Except, I do know why, don’t I? Why I didn’t say,  _ Baz, I thought I was straight, and then I met you. Just as soon as I was ready to confess my latent homosexual tendancies, I learned you were a prince and it freaked me out. Because it’s one thing to be out and gay with your asshole classmate from a random literature class, and a completely different thing to be gay with the Prince of Aldovia. If you would have even had me. Which, ok, come to think of it, may have been the scariest part of all of this.  _

If I said that, I’d out myself as a coward. Being gay, I could have handled (can handle, I mean, since I’m still at least part gay). It’s the cowardice that breaks me apart. 

Besides, I’m also here under false pretenses. In order to write a story about him. Christ. Regardless of my conversation with Ebb, I don’t think there’s an ethical system invented that’ll let my guilty conscience off the hook here. If I do what I’m meaning to do, I don’t deserve him. And I never will.

**Baz**

I lean back against Simon’s bedroom door, and exhale sharply.

He knew. He’s known for years, and he’s kept my secret. Without me even needing to ask. I feel a tightness in my chest, and I don’t think it’s the heart attack I was afraid of earlier.

I think it’s… gratitude?

Until that night with Simon, I’d always been so careful to either not take anyone home with me, or make them sign a stack of NDAs. Though, mostly I just stayed as close to a monk as possible to avoid the press catching wind of my sexuality. Not that I’m _ ashamed _ of it, but I want to come out on my own terms, after I can work out the lines of succession to ensure my mother’s legacy.

For weeks after waking up to an empty bed that morning, I lived in fear of the headlines that could have resulted. It’s part of the reason I never texted back; I didn’t want to add any more fuel to the inevitable press fire.

But then, when no news came, I’d just assumed it was because Simon lived in blissful ignorance of how easily he could have wrecked my reputation. Not because he had discovered my secret, and chose to keep it. Even after I ghosted him. That was a possibility for which I hadn’t even dared to hope.

Although, now I know one thing for certain. Growing up in royalty, there’s always this dual-edged fear when it comes to love. That you’ll fall for someone who only wants you for your crown and what it can give them, or someone who wants you despite it but can never learn to handle the responsibilities it brings.

Even if Simon Salisbury could want me back, he doesn’t want a Prince. He could never accept me as I am. No matter how much I want him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, not only is this another short chapter, but I feel like this is the slowest moving plot ever. My creativity got shot to hell last week, so my writing productivity has taken a nosedive. This chapter didn't turn out the way I wanted it to, but it exists! So. Yeah!


	8. A Worthy Adversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mordelia and Simon bond, Baz shaves his awful beard, and Simon stumbles into some political intrigue.

**Simon**

Despite staying up late talking with Baz, I wake up before my alarm goes off in the morning. My nerves are wired tight and I need to find a way to calm down before I tutor Princess Mordelia.

If Penny were here, she’d have me write out what I know and don’t know about the situation, and that seems as good an idea as any, so I start my list.

What I know:

  * I have two weeks until my replacement shows up. Two weeks to gather information, pose as Mordelia’s tutor, and try not to get caught.
  * I need to write a story about Baz, or get fired. And I do really need my job. 
  * Clearly, I still have feelings for Baz.



What I don’t know:

  * How I’m ever going to forgive myself for exploiting him.
  * How to be a tutor.
  * Anything about Mordelia, who I’m supposed to be tutoring.



No offense to Penny, but almost everything on this list gives me anxiety. Except for the last point, which I suppose is good since I’m slated to spend the whole day with her. She may be a teenager, but I’ve always been good with kids, and, despite her obvious initial disdain for me, she _did_ insult the travesty on Baz’s face. So, she’s starting out with points in my book.

With a focus for the day, I head down to the library where Vera told me to meet Mordelia.

When I reach what I assume is my seat, I see a mouse on the cushion. I lift it gently, and set it in my front pocket. I mean, I’ve seen Ratatouille. Maybe it’ll help me teach.

A door opens behind me, and I turn. Mordelia is standing in the entryway, with an expectant look on her face. I raise my eyebrows (I’ve long since given up trying to move just one) and my new mouse friend peeks out over my pocket.

Her face widens with shock, briefly, before settling into something like resolve.

“If you’re trying to scare me off, you’ll have to do something more daring than a mouse,” I warn. “Where I come from, mice are good luck.”

She raises one eyebrow (of course _she_ can do that). “And just where are you from?”

I shrug. “Somewhere where a mouse means food, which is better than a place without food.”

For a second, I think a look of pity shakes her expression, but it quickly snaps back to disdain. Which is the emotion I prefer, if I had to pick between the two options.

“Shall we get started?” I ask.

She silently joins me at the table, pulling out a backpack and setting it beside us. “What will it be?” She opens her pack and starts pulling out textbooks. “English? Geometry? World History? French?”

“Uh,” I think out loud. “Let’s start with English.” And end there, because I’m pretty sure I’ll be shit at every other option.

Mercifully, she follows my lead and we work through Dante’s Inferno. Which is a little disconcerting because I think she’s using this as source material for later forms of Simon-torture. She keeps taking notes in this little notebook from her pocket and grinning at me.

While Mordelia edits an essay on symbolism, I take a lap around the room, pausing at one of the large windows to the courtyard outside. To my surprise, Baz is outside kicking around a soccer ball. I don’t realize how long I watch him until I feel Mordelia by my side.

“You’re a bit fascinated by my brother, aren’t you?” She asks.

Too quickly, I respond, “No!” Then, remembering my lack of poker face, I admit, “Maybe. He’s a bit of a mystery.”

I turn and look at her before she can mask her reaction. “You’re surprised I answered truthfully,” I say.

She nods slowly. “There’s not a lot of honesty in this household.”

I move over to a pair of couches in the corner, picking one to relax into (one without a view to Baz, since I don’t need the distraction right now). Mordelia follows, choosing the other.

“That must get lonely,” I say.

“It’s funny, I don’t think I would have described it that way, but yeah. It’s isolating. Not being able to say what I really think and feel. Having people feel like they can’t be open and honest with me.”

My accidental mouse-pet chooses this moment to poke his head out of my pocket. I pick him up, and let him run over my hands, which Mordelia watches with some fascination. “Is that why you act out?” I ask.

She smiles, “That, and I really like the reactions people have. Though yours puzzles me.”

“How so?”

Shrugging, “You seem the type to get easily flustered--you did knock over that antique vase in our conference room.”

I wince with the memory.

“But, I put a live animal on your chair and you adopt it. It wasn’t what I expected.” She pauses. “People don’t surprise me very often.”

“Maybe you don’t give them the chance,” I say, poking her couch with my foot.

She drops her head and shakes it. “I wish I could say that was true.”

I wait for her to continue, to explain, but she hops up. “Come on, let’s go bug Baz.”

“What about your studies?” I remind her, although the last thing I want to do is crack open one of the textbooks that will reveal me to be a fraud.

She gives me this look, like she already knows I’m not who I say I am, and says, “Simon. I thought we were going to be honest with one another.”

I grin, and chase her down the stairs to the courtyard.

After first releasing our mouse friend back to the wild, Mordelia and I kick a ball around with Baz. I’ve never spent time with him where we aren’t studying or dancing, so it was fun to see him in a new environment. Plus, I think Mordelia appreciated the brother-sister bonding. A few hours later and I’ve worked up enough sweat to justify a second shower. As I’m about to part ways for my room, Mordelia stops me.

“We’re having a fancy reception tonight. You should come,” She says.

Before I can stop myself, I look to Baz. He nods, which makes Mordelia roll her eyes.

“You don’t need _his_ _permission_ , Simon. I may be just a girl, and therefore irrelevant to modern royal politics, but I _do_ have enough authority to invite you to a cocktail party,” She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest.

Laughing, “I’m sorry, Mordelia! I didn’t mean to usurp your royal right of invitation.” I pull her into a sweaty hug. She pretends to try and get away, but I think she secretly appreciates the attention.

“You’re disgusting,” She smiles.

I poke the corner of her mouth. “Except you’re smiling,” I retort. “I thought we promised honesty?”

“Ugh,” She groans. “You’re the worst.” But I think I’m starting to win her over.

Baz lingers a bit in the hallway, watching our exchange with a closed look on his face. I try not to wonder about what it means, or, really, anything about him, as I walk away to my bedroom to get ready for tonight.

I’m putting on the best clothes I brought with me, which are, admittedly, going to stick out like a sore thumb at tonight’s event, when there’s a knock on my door. Checking to make sure my clothes are as decent as possible, I open up.

It’s Baz, clean-shaven and holding a garment bag. “Baz!” I exclaim. “You shaved.” I reach my hand out and rest his jawline in the palm of my hand, gently stroking my thumb alongside the clean lines of his face. He leans into the gesture and closes his eyes. Recognizing the accidental intimacy of this encounter, I pull my hand away and slap it down on his shoulder.

“Looks good, bro!” 

His eyes shock open, as if he’d sleep-walked to my door and only just realized where his feet had taken him. “Uh, yeah. Couldn’t show up to an official event looking like I’ve been trapped on a desert island. I will miss it’s warmth, though.” He looks down at my hand as he speaks those last words.

I shove the offending hand in my pocket. “Yes, well. It’s a shame that your face will be more cold now.” Really, just when I think I can’t sound any more idiotic.

“I could, uh. Grow it back, maybe.” He says, shifting in the doorway.

“No!” I reply too quickly, and cough into my hand. “I mean, I like you, like this. Your face. Uh. It’s nice. Without the beard.”

As a diversion technique from my stupidity, I point to the bag in his hand. “What’s that?”

He starts, as if suddenly remembering he’s holding something. “Oh! It’s for you.” Extending his arm, I take the bag out of his hand and open it up. It’s a lovely gray suit that likely cost more than my first class ticket to Aldovia.

“I can’t possibly wear this,” I say.

He scoffs, “You can and you will if you plan to attend an official state event with me in attendance.”

“Oh, well, since his royal highness commands,” I joke. But it’s the wrong thing to say, and he seems to shut down a bit. I can’t help myself; I shove his arm. “Lighten up, Baz. Don’t worry, I’ll wear the suit.” I grin. “Seriously, it’s really nice. I was worried I would stick out tonight, so it means a lot that you’re helping me fit in.”

“Well, couldn’t have you looking out of place,” He allows a brief smile to crawl across his face.

A silence stretches, making the two feet between us feel like two miles. I want to reach my hand out again, to feel his cool skin in mine. But instead, I step back through the door.

“I suppose I should change,” I say.

“Indeed,” He responds. 

And we part again.

The suit suits me, I joke to my reflection before heading to the party. I wander around for a bit, feeling out of place despite the fancy new clothes. The servers keep plying me with these weird jellied meats that no one else seems to want. I can’t get enough of them, despite how disgusting they look and smell. 

I find Mordelia sulking in a corner, and lean against the wall next to her.

“So, should I expect to find any rodents in my chairs tonight?”

She sighs. “No, unfortunately I’ve decided I want to keep you around.” 

I grin at her. 

“Don’t get too excited, it’s only because you barely made me do any work today.”

Shrugging, “Well, if those are your standards, I suppose I’ll lower myself to them.”

We watch the room together, and I can’t stop my eyes from checking the door for Baz’s arrival. Another server walks over with a plate of jiggly food, and I pop one in my mouth. Looking over, I see Mordelia’s jaw drop in disgust.

“You’re _eating_ those?”

“What?” I ask, mouth full of gelatinous flesh.

“Oh my god,” She groans, and pulls me by my arm to another room. 

I hadn’t noticed it before, but there’s a two-tiered serving station covered in pastries and desserts. She grabs a plate and some scones, and shoves it into my hand.

“Here,” She says. “I’d hate to think your impression of Aldovian cuisine begins and ends with _jellied meats_.

I take a bite of one of the scones, then moan. “Sweet lord, what are these?”

“Sour cherry scones,” She announces, her back straightening with pride.

“Ugh! These are better than the scones at the hipster bakery by my apartment.” Closing my eyes, I take a second bite and chase it with another sound of pleasure. When I open them, I find Baz standing in front of me, glaring.

“Really, Salisbury. I can put you in a suit, but I still can’t take you out in public.”

“It’s Mordelia’s fault!” I blame, bits of scone crumbling out of my mouth traitorously.

Baz watches the scraps fall to the floor, and clicks his tongue in disgust. Then, he turns away to greet the other guests.

I grin sheepishly at Mordelia, whose eyes are wide.

“Simon, please come to every party with me. You’re an absolute delight.”

I head back to the serving table for more scones, and see Baz speaking with someone who resembles him slightly.

“I see you’ve lost your beard, Baz. But have you lost the self-righteous attitude that grew along with it?” The stranger asks.

“Lay off, Dev. Now’s not the time.” Baz answers, trying to walk around him.

Dev puts his hand out, stopping Baz’s escape. “You never have time for your family anymore, cousin. Could it be that you’re not planning to own up to their responsibilities?”

Baz glares, and I realize that calling any look he’s ever given me a glare was an insult to the one he’s leveled on Dev. “Don’t speak to me about responsibilities. Like loyalty and honor, it’s a word that has no business coming out of your mouth.”

He finally pushes past Dev, then flips his face into one of polite welcoming for another guest. I’m getting whiplash from the political intrigue, so I turn my attention to something more manageable: the number of pastries I can shovel into my mouth.

I’m on scone number six (Mordelia keeps count) when Dev spots me from across the room and saunters over.

“Didn’t know we were inviting the help to our parties,” Dev sneers.

“Dev, meet Simon Salisbury, my tutor. Simon, meet Dev, my step-cousin.”

Forgetting the rules of court, I extend my hand, “Hey, Dev! Nice to meet you.”

He grimaces at my hand. “The proper greeting would be to bow and address me as Lord Grimm.”

Baz comes up behind Dev and grips him tightly on the shoulder. Addressing me, “You’ll have to forgive my _dear_ cousin, Simon. He seems to have left his good sense and manners back at home this evening.” Whispering to Dev, but loud enough so Mordelia and I can hear, “You’d do well to find them again, or else I’ll tell your mother the story about the twins at Ibiza.”

Dev’s face colors slightly, and he excuses himself as quickly as he’d arrived. Then Baz nods slightly, and continues to circle the room.

Mordelia leans in conspiratorially. “Dev and Baz were the best of friends until a few years after Baz’s mother died. I still don’t know what happened exactly; Baz doesn’t exactly confide in me. Still, they’ve been at each other’s throats for the past few years.”

She looks over at Baz, smiling politely and bowing to an older couple. “It’s sad, really.”

“What is?” I ask.

She pauses, and then looks at me. For a moment, I don’t see the teenager with an attitude and a penchant for mischief. She’s just a little girl. “What this family does to each other, what it does to us all.” Then, as quickly as her mask fell, it rises again. “Come on,” Her eyes sparkle with trouble. “Let’s go put jellied meats in Dev’s coat pockets.”

I leave the party shortly after (Mordelia and I thought it was wise to escape the scene of our crime before Dev reclaimed his jacket from the coat check closet). I head to my room, and see I’ve missed a call from Penny, so I Face-Time her.

“So, what’s the gossip?” Penny asks, answering seconds after I place the call. Niall shoves into the screen. Of course he’d weasel his way into her good graces as soon as I’m in a different country.

“Have I been replaced already?” I pout.

“Duh!” Niall says at the same time Penny scoffs, “As if!” They look at each other and laugh. Then, Penny shoves him out of the frame and shoots me one of her patented ‘Listen here’ looks.

“No diversions, Simon. Tell us the scoop,” She begs.

Though I have yet to explain my situation to Davy (because I don’t trust him), I’ve confessed the tutoring situation to Penny and Niall. Predictably, Penny was appalled, and Niall was impressed. Together, I think they represent the extremes of my own thoughts on the matter.

I shrug. “There’s not much to tell. It’s just a family like any other.”

Rolling her eyes, “A family that _rules a country_. Don’t pretend like they’re the Cleavers.”

“Really, Pen. I mean, other than the fact I still don’t know if Prince Basilton intends to take up the throne, they’ve been rather kind to me. Except for his awful cousin, but I think he’s just a dick. I doubt it’s any form of serious wrong-doings.”

She sighs. “Well, you’re going to have to find some angle to your story, Simon. I doubt Davy will accept a piece called ‘Royal Aldovians: They’re Just Like Us, But With More Jewels!’”

“Well, he probably wouldn’t accept that piece because the headline is too long, but I get your point. Still, I feel icky about writing about Baz without his permission.”

Penny’s jaw drops. “ _Baz_ is it? I didn’t realize you were on a first name basis with the Prince. I’m guessing he’s as dreamy in person as he looks in photographs?”

“Dreamier,” I say, then clap my hand over my mouth.

“Oh my god,” Penny laughs, and Niall cackles in the background. “You’re practically drooling! You look as smitten as you were with that guy from your English class.”

I groan. “Ugh. Ok, I can’t do this. Penny, I love you, but I’m never FaceTiming you again.”

“Whatever,” She says. “You know you’ll miss me too much. Plus, if you never call me again, I’ll have to permanently replace you with Niall. Which would hurt me as much as it would hurt you.”

I hear Niall’s wounded, “Hey!” in the distance.

“Fine,” I concede. “I’ll talk with you tomorrow.”

“That’s right,” She says, turning her nose up in the air. “Sweet dreams of _Baz_ ,” She coos, and I hang up the phone without another word.

Laying down on the bed, I stare at the ceiling, and try to think of anything but the smooth skin of Baz’s cheek against my hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a longer chapter! And one that ends a little less sad than before. Also probably RIP that mouse if Simon and Mordelia released it during winter... I don't think either of them really thought that through. Apologies for using the phrase "gelatinous flesh" except sorrynotsorry because it really made me laugh.


	9. A Tangled Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mordelia learns Simon's secret. Baz and Simon get to know each other better. Also a pillow fight happens.

**Mordelia**

Eavesdropping isn’t lady-like. But, fuck that. Because there’s something going on with my tutor, and I need to find out. The way he and my brother look at each other when they think the other isn’t paying attention…

So I wait until he heads to his room after the party, and I listen. 

That’s when I learn Simon Salisbury’s secret.

He’s a reporter. Of course he is. It’s just our family’s luck because I was beginning to like him, and there are already enough obstacles between Simon and Baz: my father, the crown, the laws... our people.

Now this?

But I’m still rooting for the two of them, despite everything. I can tell by the way Simon defends us that he’d treat our story with care. 

Someone needs to tell this story. I know Baz is ready.

So I won’t tell Simon I know his secret. Not yet.

Not until it’s time.

**Baz**

When I wake the next morning, I’ve barely clocked an hour's worth of quality sleep. I can still feel Simon’s hand on my face, the soft strokes of his thumb against my cheek.

He continues to confound me. There’s something between us; I know I’m not making this up on my own. The way he touched me… 

It meant something.

And if I’m to get any sleep in the next several days, I’m going to have to figure this out.

At a quarter past six, I give up on sleep and head to the library where I store my violin. In the goal of drowning out doubts, hopes, and Simon, I play.

**Simon**

I wake before my alarm again. Something about this house keeps me on edge, and it’s more than the discomfort of my deception.

I decide I might as well get dressed early and wander the house. I’d pretend it’s to conduct research for my profile, but really I just need to move around to distract me from the guilt and confusion I’m feeling.

When I leave my room, I hear a haunting melody echo off the walls of the castle, a violin, tugging at my heartstrings. I follow the tune.

And find Baz.

Leaning against the entry to what appears to be a massive Beauty and the Beast-esque library, I close my eyes and listen to him play. After a few minutes, the music stops and I open my eyes to find Baz looking at me. 

“You can come in, if you’d like,” He says.

“That was lovely,” I say, taking a seat on a couch in the center of the room, a few feet from where Baz was playing.

“My mother made me play. She said music was the food of the soul,” Baz says, his eyes on his instrument. “I almost quit when she died.”

The pain on his face is obvious. “You don’t have to talk about her, if you don’t want to,” I offer.

Baz sets his instrument down in his case, then looks at my face for a minute, as if deciding something. “I’d like to, if you don’t mind.” Then, he takes a seat next to me on the couch.

I want to take his head in my lap and stroke his hair to encourage him, but I keep my hands firmly in my lap. Still, it’s not a large couch, so I slide my leg over, letting it barely touch his. He presses his leg back into mine.

“We’d had a fight, earlier that day. My family and me. I wasn’t the easiest son to raise,” He says, looking at me out of the corner of his eye and smiling sadly. “I was… making trouble. And the press covered every move, which made everything worse. It was like living in a pressure cooker, and nothing any of us did could ease the strain.”

He sighs, and continues. “I said some choice words, and my mother decided she wanted to take a drive. Get some distance from the argument. She took my car, the press followed, and. Well. You know the story from there.” Looking out the window, he says, “Everyone knows the story.”

I can’t help myself; I reach over and squeeze his hand briefly before returning it to him. “Everyone may know the story, but you knew  _ her _ . That’s what’s important. That’s what you have to remember.”

Turning back to me, he grins but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sometimes, it feels like no matter who I am or what I do, all I’ll ever be known for is the reason she’s dead. The playboy prince who broke his mother’s heart right before the tabloid scum who printed his misdeeds chased her into a ditch in an attempt to squeeze one more dollar out of their tragedy.”

My heart tugs with this confession. The guilt of what those claiming my profession have done to a family that deserved their privacy, despite their fame. The guilt of what I’ve been sent here to do.

Then, he twists the knife deeper. “It never stops, Simon. The invasion. It never ends.”

I should leave. I should confess, and run away. Leave him to what little privacy he can find. Instead, I lean into my instincts. “You could dilute their efforts, you know.”

He blinks at me. “How?”

“Tell your side of the story.”

His eyebrows furrow. “How would giving them  _ more _ help me protect my family?” 

I shrug. “It’s not about giving away what you aren’t comfortable sharing, but about knowing how to control your own narrative. I’m not saying it’s right, but you are a figure of prominence. Someone people want to know more about. Vacuums seek to be filled, so the press fill that gap with whatever they find: the sensational, the libelous--the worst of you. They exploit your weakness, your silence, for their own profit.

“If you consented to periodic articles, talked to trusted members of the press,” Here he scoffs, and I glare a bit, “There are  _ some _ journalists with integrity, Baz. You don’t seem to like it when they pre-judge you, so why is it fair that you can do it to them?”

He leans back against the couch and closes his eyes. “It pains me to say this, Salisbury, but you might be right.” Sitting forward, he bumps his shoulder against mine. “I’ll take your advice under consideration.”

“Well, I hadn’t really finished giving it…” I say.

He laughs, “I knew where you were going. You want me to share some choice table scraps so the ravenous beasts at my feet stop stealing my whole damn meal when I’m not looking.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t put it  _ that _ way,” I joke back, shoving his shoulder with my hand. He shoves me back. So I escalate by grabbing a throw pillow and using it to slap him in the face. His eyes and mouth open wide with shock. Slowly, he reaches back behind him. 

“Baz,” I coax, dropping the pillow by my side and putting my hands in the air. “You don’t want to do this.”

He grins. “What, you don’t think I can take you?”

“I’ve seen you on the soccer field, I know you can. Only, I wouldn’t want you to muss your hair.”

Groaning, “It’s a football pitch, Salisbury. Get it right.” 

I jut my chin out. “Soccer. Field.”

“You’re going down,” He growls, and then it’s on.

Pillows fly, feathers escape, and before I know it, I’m straddled on Baz’s lap, pillow at the ready.

“Surrender, Baz. I have the high ground.”

“Never,” He declares, and then he shifts his hips, trying to gain traction to throw me off.

Oh. Oh no. “Stop, Baz,” I panic, placing the pillow on his chest and pushing down on it to stop his wiggling.

“Why?” He smirks. “Afraid I’ll gain the upper hand?” Though, mercifully his movements still.

For the moment.

I move as if to get off, and he grabs my wrists.

**Baz**

“I thought I was the one meant to surrender?” I smirk, eyebrow raising.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t know what I was doing to the poor man. Simon looks deliciously uncomfortable straddling my hips. If this were a larger couch, or better yet a bed, I’d have flipped him ages ago. Still, this is as good a position as any to confirm the feelings between us are more mutual than I’d dared to hope.

I relax my grip on his wrists and he lets me feel my way up his muscles, my fingertips dragging along the sweater to his shoulders. His hands clutch for life at the pillow between us; I wonder if he still realizes it’s there

He has to kiss me first; if I make the first move, I could be seen as trying to take advantage. Still, I’m not opposed to making the opportunity available to him. Like the devil I am, I shift my hips slightly, and rest my hands on his shoulders with enough pressure that it’s clear what I want him to do. 

Then, there’s a cough at the door. I release Simon from my grip and he leaps off my lap in a flash, smoothing down the front of his sweater.

I sit up on the couch, twisting to catch a glimpse of our intruder. It’s Mordelia, leaning up against the entrance, arms crossed, a perverse gleam in her eyes. That little cockblock.

**Mordelia**

_ Not yet, you stupid horny jerks _ , I think as I cough to give away my presence.

I don’t think Baz would ever forgive Simon if they’d kissed before he learned who Simon really was. These idiots need my help if they’re ever going to get together. Thankfully, I’m in a charitable mood.

It is Christmas, after all.

**Baz**

I watch Simon leave the library with Mordelia, on their way to her tutoring session. When they’re both gone, I stretch my body to fit the full length of the couch, resting my hands under my head. Despite the interruption, a smile spreads across my face, making my cheeks hurt with the effort.

Salisbury may not want a royal, but he wants me. 

I can work with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd apologize for the pillow fight, if I didn't have so much fun writing it. Also, Mordelia is quickly becoming my favorite character, the little imp.


	10. A Seduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz tries to seduce Simon while baking cookies and tying his bow tie. That's it. The plot barely moves forward.

**Simon**

I let Mordelia convince/command me to skip tutoring in lieu of Christmas baking. I’m beginning to suspect she knows I’m not a professional tutor, so she’s going to keep getting her way as long as she keeps my secret.

Pulling out my phone, I throw on one of my favorite playlists, and pull up the recipe for buckeyes, a Christmas treat that Ebb and I have been making since she took me in at age 11.

“I’m going to need butter, powdered sugar, and peanut butter--creamy peanut butter, the cheaper the better.” I tell Mordelia.

She crinkles her nose. “We don’t keep  _ cheap  _ peanut butter here.”

“Fine,” I sigh. “Give me whatever you have.”

I’m mashing butter with the powdered sugar when I hear a third party in the kitchen. I turn around to find Baz leaning up against a wall, watching my arms mix the ingredients.

“I invited Prince Baz, is that ok?” Mordelia asks.

I shrug, keeping my hands busy. “Hey, I seem to remember that questioning your invitation skills is a touchy subject.”

Baz smirks, and then scoots behind me to move to my other side. As he passes, he presses his hand to my lower back. I try to hide the shiver I feel run up my spine. I think I’m successful.

**Baz**

If Simon thinks he hid that shiver from me, he’s got another thing coming.

I may have been pining for him for well over two years, but I know I have game. I’m going to make Simon regret… something. I haven’t figured it out yet, but revenge will be painful.

**Simon**

I swear, there are only five ingredients and a few kitchen tools needed for this recipe, but whatever I ask for always seems to be on the other side of me from where Baz is, forcing him to squeeze past me at every request. And he places his hand on my lower back. Every. Single. Time. I think his hand even breached the jean/boxer barrier last time. His touches are getting precariously ass-level.

Thank god we’re now into the dipping and cooling stage. Although, of course Baz makes dipping peanut butter balls into chocolate sexual; he looks at me dead in the eyes everytime he places the toothpick in the ball for dipping. And he presses it in. Slowly.

I keep trying to remember that Mordelia’s in the kitchen with us. But she keeps getting distracted by her phone. Stupid teenagers with their phones. I need her moral support. Or a disgusted cough, the kind she used to save me last time.

When we stick the last cookie sheet of buckeyes in the fridge, there’s still a good amount of melted chocolate left over. I smile.

“When I was little, Ebb always let me eat the excess chocolate,” I share, holding the glass container out to Mordelia.

She shakes her head. “No thanks, it’s way too early in the morning for melted chocolate.”

Scoffing, Baz takes the bowl from my hands. “Sacrilege, my stepsister. It’s never too early for chocolate.” Then, he sticks a finger in the bowl, swirls it around the rim of the container, and sucks his whole finger into his mouth.

If this were a cartoon, the whole room would have just heard the gulp I swallowed.

Mordelia rolls her eyes, grabs the bowl from Baz, and throws it in the sink. I douse it with water, like it’s a fire that could burn me.

That look Baz gave me while sucking his finger certainly could have.

I clear my throat. “Should we make sugar cookies now?”

Mordelia gets a real kick out of using the cookie cutters. Although, I think she’s just abusing the right to pick off spare pieces and stick them in her mouth. It’s not too early for cookie dough, apparently.

Baz seems a little more subdued during this portion of the morning’s events. He’s got his own phone out, typing up something he hasn’t shared with the whole class. The longer he types, the more suspicious I get.

He’s plotting something.

I lean back from the island where I’ve been rolling out dough for Mordelia to cut through. I always forget how tiresome it is to make these Christmas cookies. But they’re my mother’s recipe, one of the few things I have from her, so I make them every year.

Wiping the back of my hand across my forehead, I sigh deeply. I stick my hand out to start rolling out the next batch when Baz grabs my wrist.

“Hold on,” He says, flipping me and pushing my back against the island. Leaning in, his thighs pressed against mine, he licks up his thumb, then brings it up to my forehead, wiping away at something there.

Smiling into my face, he breathes, “You had some flour there.”

Except, he doesn’t take his hand back. He lets his thumb and the back of his hand drag from my forehead, to my jaw line. Down the length of my neck. Across my clavicle, settling eventually on my shoulder.

“Better,” He whispers. 

I think I’ve been holding my breath since he grabbed my wrist. I should probably breathe. Now. Eventually. Any time, really.

Mordelia groans, “Shit! I think my snowmen are merging with the candy canes.”

Shit. I forgot she was in here. I push Baz off me.

“Don’t say shit,” Baz scolds.

“Sorry,” Mordelia and I say in unison. They both give me a weird look. Oh right, I didn’t curse out loud.

Baz straightens his shirt, and walks over to the oven with Mordelia. While they survey the damage, I adjust myself in my pants.

_ Ho, ho, ho, _ I think.

Normally, icing the sugar cookies is my favorite part, but Baz and Mordelia are besides themselves with joy at the task, so I let them ice the bulk of the cookies. I stick to frosting the bells, which are simple enough. Plus, it keeps me away from Baz’s groping hands.

I finally take a break to inspect their work, and realize Baz has iced every angel into a devil. He grins at me and winks.

Of course. I don’t know why I expected anything different.

I walk back to my bells, where it’s safe.

When we’re done, we box up the cookies. At Mordelia’s suggestion, we package them for the servants they work with most frequently. I was actually touched by the suggestion, until she shrugged and said, “They’re the closest things to friends I have right now.”

I couldn’t help but look at Baz when she said this, and the look he gave me threw my heart to the ground and stopped it into dust. Because I could tell he  _ sympathized _ .

So I popped a buckeye in his mouth. It was the least I could do.

Then the bastard grabbed my hand and licked melted chocolate off my finger, and I felt a little less guilty that he understood what it was like to have your employees serve as your only friends.

Just a little, though.

Because I’m beginning to realize we have more in common than I thought.

Mordelia dismisses me with the promise that I attend another gathering this evening. This time, Lord Malcom will be in attendance. Baz’s dad.

I’d say I was terrified, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt true terror until this moment. The only comfort I have is in realizing Baz seems to be feeling a level of anxiety equal to or greater than my own, evidenced by the insane number of buckeyes he consumed. How he manages to stress-eat chocolate and stay as thing as he is defies modern science.

Of course, I’m stewing in my own anxiety created by the endless, unnerving, arousing touches from my crush combined with the prospect of meeting his father (and also, coincidentally, my employer). As the day progresses, I’m not sure which reality unsettles me most, but in either case one truth is obvious.

I’m a complete mess. 

Luckily, when I depart Mordelia’s company for the day, Baz has left me another suit in my room, so at least I won’t  _ look  _ like the disaster I feel inside. Black this time, with a black bow tie. Which seems more subdued and formal. Putting on the suit feels like wearing a uniform, which calms me. Until I get to the bow tie, which I have no idea how to assemble.

I’m fumbling through a YouTube tutorial when there’s a knock on my door. Before I can answer, Baz strides in. He’s wearing a similarly subdued look, a stark contrast to the bold colors and patterns he normally wears. I prefer the colors to the somber black on black ensemble, but I keep this thought to myself. He still looks gorgeous, after all.

He tuts. “Simon, your tie is a mess.”

“I know,” I sigh, trying to futz my tie into something more respectable.

He swats my hands away, and works at it himself. His eyes focused on my neck, I allow mine to roam over his face. He’s slicked his hair back, which is my least favorite Baz hairstyle. Still, it looks nice. Everything about him does. I can smell his cologne. It’s something like piney woods and some earthy fruit.

“Bergamont,” He smirks.

The bastard knew I was smelling him.

“It’s nice,” I admit.

Humming, “I know.” His hands still. “There,” He says, then flips me toward the mirror.

The bow tie looks magazine-perfect. Of course it does. He keeps his hands on my shoulders, rubbing them back and forth across their breadth. For a moment, I allow my eyes to close, leaning into the sensation, and his movements turn into a slight massage. He presses his body up against my back.

“Simon, it’s time to head to the party,” He breathes on my neck. 

When did his face get there?

My eyes snap open. “Of course.”

He turns to head out the door. “You coming?” He asks.

“Uh,” I say, looking around the room. “Give me a minute?”

He smirks again. “Of course. I’ll wait outside.”

That rat bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short-ish chapter, but a fun one so I don't feel guilty about it. I've pretty much given up on making this a play-for-play adaptation of "A Christmas Prince" and I think my story will come out better for it.
> 
> Also, I don't fully understand how ratings work, so someone let me know if I need to up mine. Although this is likely as steamy as the story will get. Maybe. Who knows.
> 
> [Link to my buckeye recipe](https://facewithoutheart.tumblr.com/post/636451240135606272/from-my-latest-chapter-of-a-christmas-pitch-my). It's my Christmas joy to eat these. The whiskey makes the balls slide right off the toothpick, and other awkward recipe notes.


	11. A Breakdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz learns Simon's secret. The boys are idiots, and Mordelia's in over her head.

**Baz**

I’m grinning like a fool when I leave Simon’s bedroom. Until I see Mordelia’s angry face, staring up at me. She’s barely 5’4”, and only fourteen, so I shouldn't be afraid of her. But I am. A little. I mean, I thought she  _ liked _ that goat.

“Come with me,” She commands, and drags me by my arm to an empty guest room.

Slamming the door behind me, she asks, “What are you doing with my tutor?”

It’s all I can do not to stammer. “What do you mean?”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re  _ flirting _ with him. Why?”

I have no idea how to explain to my teenage stepsister that I’ve been pining over this man for over two years now, and I like the effect I have on him, so I’m poking the dragon until he kills me with his fire-breath. Or kisses me and sets me on fire in an entirely different way. Either will do. But that’s not exactly teen-friendly talk.

Instead, I give her my very mature older brother response. “I don’t have to answer that; you’re not my mom.”

“Fine,” She breathes, placing her hands on her hips. Oh no. I may be gay, but I know that a man should always fear a woman when she places her hands on her hips. “It stops now.”

Apparently, I’m not done living dangerously for the night. “And why should it?”

“Because he’s a reporter.”

It’s like an entire ocean of cold water’s been dumped on my head.

“He’s a  _ what _ ?”

“A reporter,” She answers, like it’s obvious.

My whole world is spinning. “How do you know this?” 

“I heard him, talking on the phone in his bedroom.”

I’m ready to pull the curtains off the windows. To set the bedsheets on fire. To punch a hole in the wall like I’m a maladjusted frat boy.

I want to tear Simon Salisbury apart, limb from limb.

**Mordelia**

Baz looks angry enough to resort to arson, and I need him to calm down. This was not what I expected, but I’m not surprised. Men. They cannot control their emotions.

“Calm down, Baz.”

But my words seem to have the opposite effect. He started pacing the room, running his hands through his hair, ruining his careful styling. Whoa. If he’s messing his hairdo, he’s angrier than I thought. I wonder if-- Oh no.

I cut him off in his path, placing my arms around his waist. “I’m sorry, Baz.”

One of his hands tentatively reaches up behind my head, and then, he falls to the floor in front of me. I kneel down with him, and wrap my arms around him again. “Oh, Baz. Your heart’s too big for your body, you know?”

He lets out a world-weary sigh and my teenage heart breaks. To see my big brother like this… well. I’ve never seen him like this.

“I didn’t realize you--I didn’t know--,” But I’m still a kid, and I don’t have the words.

Eventually, he finds his.

Leaning back, he takes a deep breath.

**Baz**

I feel guilty for letting my emotions get the best of me in front of Mordelia. I’m always trying to be strong for her, but after what she told me...

I guess my feelings for Salisbury run deeper than I’d realized. It’s all fun and games until. This happens.

“I suppose I owe you a story,” I say.

Shaking her head, “You don’t owe me anything.”

“No,” I squeeze her shoulder. “I really do.”

She crosses her legs and sits in front of me. I pull my knees up to my chest; I’m five seconds from going full-fetal, so I might as well get in position.

“It all started two and a half years ago, that summer I went to New York City...”

**Simon**

When I exit my bedroom, Baz is gone. I’m disappointed, but maybe it’s better that he’s not there. If things continue the way they have been… well. I can’t keep leaving rooms to cool down just because Baz is not-so-accidentally touching me.

I find my way to the ballroom and nod at Vera. Her presence comforts me; it’s a little weird being the only help at these parties, even though I know as Mordelia’s tutor I have a somewhat privileged position among the staff.

Someone sidles up next to me at the pastry station (which I can now find on my own, to the detriment of my waistline). I look over and almost double-take. It’s a middle aged woman who might be the clone of Baz, except her black hair is longer, and has a white streak down the front of it.

“Who are you, boyo?” She asks.

“Simon Salisbury, Mordelia’s tutor,” I respond, shoving out my hand before remembering I’m not supposed to.

To my surprise, she takes my hand, and then basically crushes it in her handshake. “Salisbury, eh? Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” I squeak, entering second puberty due to her grip.

She grins at my response. “Fiona Pitch.  _ Lady  _ Pitch, if you’re nasty.” Winking, “I’m Basil’s aunt.”

That explains the resemblance. “So the Pitches aren’t afraid to shake my hand, then? Not like the Grimm’s?”

Laughing, “You’ve got guts, boy. I like that. Now, where is my nephew and my step-niece?”

**Baz**

“You can’t blame yourself, Basil. You didn’t know,” Mordelia tells me.

Easy for her to say, she’s not the one who’s brought a snake into the castle.

As if she’s read my mind, she adds, “If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s Vera’s. She’s the one in charge of vetting the staff.”

But I can’t blame Vera. Salisbury’s the one who lied, who pretended to be someone he’s not.

My friend. My… something more. Maybe. Someday. I’d hoped, at least.

“Besides,” Mordelia continues. “You said he’s known this whole time who you are. And it’s not like he’d have to go far to sell your story. He actually works for the press. So, maybe you weren’t wrong to trust him.”

In my self-flagellation, I hadn’t considered that. I remember how just recently I felt gratitude that he’d kept my secret. All this time, he’s been working for an employer who likely would have given him anything for the knowledge he protected. On my behalf. Without me ever having to ask.

Then, I remember his advice in the library. That not all of the press are created equal. How I shouldn’t paint them all with the same brush. How, with a few well-placed stories, I could control my narrative. Ease some of the pressure on the family.

“I don’t think you were wrong to trust him,” Mordelia says. “I heard him on the phone with his friends. He defended us. He said.” She gives me a significant look. “He said he felt awful having to write about you without your permission.”

It helps, some, knowing that. But the pit in my stomach isn’t going away anytime soon. I feel betrayed, and I don’t know if I can ever forgive Simon.

But, maybe I can use him. Maybe we can use each other.

**Simon**

I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until Baz walks in the room. Except there’s something about his posture I don’t like. As if some weight has settled there since I last saw him. Mordelia follows him into the room. She gives me a smile, but Baz looks right through me. It’s like a dagger in my heart.

When did I let him in so close that he could hurt me like this?

I shake the feeling. I’m here to do a job, aren’t I? Wasn’t distance something I wanted?

_ Not like this _ , a voice inside whispers.  _ Not when the distance feels like the result of a wound you can’t see _ .

Before I can reflect on those thoughts further, a man takes center stage.

“Introducing, His Royal Regent, Lord Malcolm Grimm.”

A brief applause breaks out in the room, as a man in a navy suit waves to the crowd. He’s got the same stark widow’s peak as Baz, though his hair is white-gray. He’s also shorter than Baz, not by much--about three inches, just like me.

“Welcome, all,” He greets the room. “As many of you know, we’re coming to the end of my regency, and toward the dawn of my son’s reign.”

Baz nods at these words, and it doesn’t slip my notice that his gaze avoids mine as he smiles at his guests.

“As is customary, my son will announce a charity for his inaugural year as King of Aldovia. This charity will be the recipient of a steep grant, as well as the benefit of numerous press opportunities. For the chosen charity, this is a high honor, and I’m pleased to share that my son will announce his pick at the conclusion of this evening.”

The room applauds, and as soon as Lord Grimm’s speech begins, it ends. Apparently, he’s a man of a few words.

I turn back to the pastries, and find Mordelia there. 

“Hi Simon!” She greets me.

“Hey yourself,” I punch her shoulder. “Staying out of trouble?”

“Never,” She grins.

There’s a new set of heat by my shoulder, and I smell Baz’s cologne before I see him.

“Salisbury,” He drawls. 

“Your highness,” I say, wondering what game he’s playing now.

He clears his throat. “Might I have a minute?”

I catch a weird look on Mordelia’s face: panic? Sadness?

“Sure,” I respond. Then, I follow him to a side room.

He shuts the door behind us, and my heart skips a beat. I’m afraid, and excited, to be alone with him again. Taking a seat, he gestures toward a couch adjacent to him. I take it.

“I could use your advice,” He starts, crossing one leg over the other, and his arms in front of him.

The posture is almost defensive, and I wonder what’s changed in the space of my bedroom and here.

“Of course, happy to help.” I keep my body language open; whatever he’s playing, I choose not to reciprocate.

There’s this mask on his face, and I realize with a sinking sensation that it’s very similar to the looks he gave the attendees of that first cocktail party I attended at the start of my stay in the castle. He’s looking at me like I’m a stranger, and it hurts.

“My father wants me to choose a charity, and I’m stuck between two options.” He starts.

I nod, and wait for him to continue. I feel disorientated by the formal way he’s addressing me, and I’m trying not to let it show.

“My father wants me to choose a charity that plays well in the press. The Boy’s Home of Aldovia, an orphanage. He says orphans make for better photo opportunities.”

As if I couldn’t feel sicker by this whole conversation, that almost undoes me. I try to breathe deeply without letting him see. My hands tremble against my sides.

“But I’d like to pick something… more personal.”

He gives me this look, like he’s sizing me up. It’s not unlike the look he gave me in the library, the first time we spoke outside of class. But he doesn’t say anything. I wonder if I’ve failed his test, whatever it was.

The pit in my stomach is large enough for me to sink into, so I figure, why not dig it deeper?

**Baz**

It physically hurts to sit here with Simon like this. Like we’re strangers. But we are, aren’t we?

“Don’t pick the orphanage,” He says.

I’m trying to conceal my shock. I’m not sure if it works.

“I mean,” He throws a hand in his hair, messing up his perfect curls like he always does when upset. “Personal is always better, right? If something has a tie to you, a connection, it always goes better. If it’s press you’re looking for, the media can always sniff out when things feel fake. So, if you care about something, it helps avoid looking like you’ve picked something just to pander. More than that, if you’re looking to get the public to support you, they do that better when they feel they know you. So, I think personal’s the way to go.”

Then, he gives me a look, and sighs.

“Speaking of personal, I’ve just got to--” He closes his eyes, and leans his head back on his chair, like he’s making a decision. Then, he leans forward, and focuses the whole of his blue-eyed gaze on me, the intensity threatening to set me alight. “Look, I don’t like telling this story, but I wouldn’t be a friend to you, or true to myself if I didn’t say this.”

Friends? Are we friends? And is he going to confess to being a reporter? Because I don’t know if I could handle him telling me this, now of all times.

He takes a deep breath. “Baz, I’m an orphan. So, if you’re asking me if I  _ like _ the idea of the orphanage being chosen as the poster charity to get some decent PR? Then, well, fuck that.” He exhales a heartless laugh. “Admittedly, my advice is biased, so take it with a grain of salt.”

Then, he leans back in his chair, and smoothes down non-existent wrinkles on his trousers with trembling hands.

I want nothing more than to take his hands in mine, to calm his nerves and reassure him I’d never take advantage. Instead, I say, “I didn’t know.”

Again, he breathes his horrid joyless chuckle. “Well, it’s not something you tell just anyone. Don’t want the pity.” His eyes search mine, looking for the offending emotion. He must not find it, because he nods, satisfied.

“You’re a good man, Baz. I’m sure you’ll do what’s right.”

Then he stands up, as if  _ he’s _ dismissing  _ me _ .

If I didn’t hate him so much, I might love him for the audacity.

He claps a hand down on my shoulder. “I just want you to know, whatever you decide, I’ll support you. I know that, even if you pick the orphanage, you’ll do it for the right reasons.”

I have no idea what to do with this sentiment, with this trust.

Except, I suppose, to return it.

God, he’s not making this easy on me.

**Simon**

Baz leaves the room first, and I’m grateful for the moment to clear my head. To steel my heart for whatever comes next. I mean it, I do. If Baz picks the orphanage, it’ll break my heart but I’d understand. It’s what his father wants, after all. Hell, what wouldn’t I do for my father, if I’d ever known him?

Still, there’s this sick part of me that feels like I’ve given him a test. What he does next, and what it means for us. Shit. Listen to me.  _ Us _ . There is no us. He’s seemed to make that clear tonight.

Just when I’m about to indulge in another round of self-flagellation, Mordelia joins me in the room.

“You coming back out?” She asks.

“Yeah, just.” I breathe in, breathe out. “Just needed a minute.”

**Mordelia**

These boys are complete idiots. But, they’re idiots for each other. 

Keeping them apart is going to be harder than I thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the angst, but Baz had to learn Simon's secret at some point, right?


	12. A Charitable Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon accompanies Mordelia into town, and gives Baz advice on how to conduct a press conference.

**Simon**

When I gather the strength to leave the side room, Baz is already at the podium making his speech.

His gray eyes scan the audience, falling anywhere but on me. So it shouldn’t be a surprise when he announces he’s picked the orphanage as his charity. Of course he does. What was I expecting? That he’d stand in front of his important guests and family, flip his father the middle finger, pick a different charity, and then dip me over his knee for a breathtaking kiss?

Only, I hadn’t realized how high my hope had risen until his announcement sent it plummeting downward. 

This… thing. With me and Baz. It’s gotten more complicated than I’d anticipated. What had been a summer crush has become something deeper, scarier. I’ve never been so unfocused in my life. I need to remember why I’m here. I needed this reminder.

So, really, I’m grateful for Baz’s severing this link. Failing this test or whatever. It feels like a fitting final nail in the coffin of whatever’s been brewing between us. 

_ This is good, _ I think.  _ Now I can focus on the real reason I’m here: writing this story _ .

Then, I scoff at myself. As a reporter, I’ve been trained to identify clear falsehoods.

When Baz finishes his announcement, I say goodbye to Mordelia, and I head back to my room. Penny’s called, but I don’t have the energy to endure her teasing or prying about Baz. I know she means well, but this roller coaster of a day has completely worn me out. I can only hope that the morning will bring renewed strength. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.

“Wake up, asshole,” Mordelia greets me the next morning. My eyes are suddenly assaulted by rays of sunshine. I can’t believe I’ve slept so late after going to bed early; I must have been exhausted.

“Argh,” I groan. “What are you doing?”

I hear the rustling of curtains, and more light fills the room. Throwing my blankets over my head, I groan again.

“I’m pretty sure you’re too young to have a death wish,” I mumble from the safety of my improvised cocoon. 

She scoffs, then she shakes me through the covers.

“Get up, get up!” She yells.

I peek my head out. “This is not very royal behavior,” I scold.

The look she gives me could fry my eyebrows off. I throw my hands out of the covers. “Ok! Fine. I give in. I’m  _ awake _ .” Sighing, I scoot against my pillows until my torso is half above the sheets. Crossing my arms across my bare chest, I ask, “What do you want?”

“I want you to get dressed, Simon,” She announces. “We have an outing to attend.”

“What outing?” I rub my eyes, still squinting at the influx of sun in the room.

Rolling her eyes, “Simon, I’m basically your employer, so do what I tell you because there’s no time for these inane questions. As I said, get dressed. We’re going out.” 

She punctuates her command by hopping out of bed. As she exits my door, she calls back, “Wear something warm!”

I flop back and groan, vowing never to have a teenage daughter.

Overnight, Aldovia’s been transformed into even more of a winter wonderland. I admire the contrasting white snow against the green pine forests as we drive. We enter the town to a great deal of fanfare; all along our paths, locals wave and shout, “Merry Christmas!” at the royal caravan. Since this is the first time I get to see the capital city, I try to subtly take notes on my phone for my story. It’s a bit challenging since I’m in the car with Vera and Mordelia, but luckily Mordelia is a teenager who’s as addicted to her phone as I appear.

We pull up to the city’s broad market square. It’s surrounded by colorful buildings, with a beautiful cathedral at the center. I can see where awnings would stretch out during summertime, but the diners are all bundled up inside, fogging the frost-lined windows. Every shop is decked out in holiday decorations: wreaths, lights, blow-up animatronic Santa’s (that wave and shout, “Ho, ho ho!”). It’s adorable.

I spot a park full of trees where the lights have been draped to appear like icicles. I imagine strolling down its pathways at night, a cup of hot chocolate in one hand, a lover’s glove in the other, and a sharp twinge in my stomach makes me wince. Shaking it off, I look at Mordelia.

“It’s beautiful here,” I whisper.

She smiles, and her sincerity lights up her face. “Isn’t it just?” She breathes. “Christmas has always been my favorite time of year, and no one celebrates the holidays like Aldovians do.”

Her joy fills up the loneliness I felt earlier. She’s so stoic and cynical sometimes, I forget she’s still just a kid. I squeeze her shoulder and she grins a little wider.

We finally reach our destination, and my stomach sinks again. It’s the Boy’s Home of Aldovia.

I roll my shoulders a bit, trying to release the tension building there. Clearing my throat, “What are we doing here?” I ask Mordelia, hoping only I can hear the strain in my voice.

“Baz is giving a speech, of course.” She elbows me. “I figured you’d like to see him in his element. His orations are legendary.”

I smile and nod, my throat suddenly dry. The last thing I want to see is Baz put the spotlight on an orphanage at Christmas. My mind flashes back to my own experiences. Trees with poorly wrapped, generic gifts that always meant well but never felt right. Plus, the larger boys always ended up stealing anything of value anyone received. And none of it mattered anyway, because what we wanted would never fit under a tree. You can’t gift wrap family.

I must not be doing a good job of hiding my emotions, because I look down to find Mordelia giving me a curious stare.

“You ok, Simon?” She asks.

Putting on my best fake smile, I reassure her, “Absolutely. Let’s go watch Baz give his speech.”

We park some ways down the street so we can walk through the square. Mordelia points out the notables to me, showing me which bakery serves the best scones, where you can find prank gifts to torment your friends, where Daphne gets her personalized soaps, and more. 

“Do you get to visit here a lot, then?” I ask.

Mordelia shrugs. “We used to, before my mom married Malcolm. These days, it’s too much of a hassle. We have to shut the stores down to shop, and I don’t really think that’s fair to the owners or the townspeople.”

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s got her stone face back on, and I remind myself that everyone’s got their own story to suffer. Sure, every little girl wants to be a princess, until they realize that castles are just as much designed to keep them in as it is to keep others out. 

I look back up and see a window display that strikes inspiration.

“Wait here,” I tell Mordelia, before running ahead.

In the store, I grab a wig, a hat, and a pair of sunglasses. I pull Mordelia into a nearby alley and dress her up, whispering my plan in her ear as I fix her wig. Then, with a conspiratorial nod to Mordelia, and wink to her security guards, we take off running. A few blocks down, free of our detail, both of us breathing heavy in our winter coats, we start laughing.

“How long until Baz’s speech?” I ask.

She grins. “We have at least an hour.”

“All right!” I clap my hands. “Let’s go shopping.”

An hour later, laden with shopping bags and smiling ear to ear, we find Mordelia’s security crew fuming in the square. Although, the fuming is diminished by the steaming cups of coffee and pastries they’re enjoying.

“Miss us?” I joke.

They growl, then bark some reassurances into their earpieces. I nudge Mordelia with my elbow and she returns the gesture. The day has been worth it, just being able to give her this outlet and momentary freedom.

The bodyguards nod at each other, finish their coffee, and stand flanking us. I have a feeling we’re not going to be able to shake them so easily again. We move onward, and within a few minutes we’ve arrived at the orphanage.

For all of my reluctance, I’m surprised by how nice the orphanage looks. It resembles the town square buildings, with holiday decorations, a wide front lawn full of boys building snowmen. I didn’t realize a home for orphans could look so inviting.

Mordelia must catch my amazement. “Baz’s mom helped build this. We’ve visited every Christmas season since its groundbreaking, even after Baz went AWOL. He always came back to make sure the boys got a good holiday.”

I blink away the water gathering in my eyes, and nod.

“Simon,” Mordelia says, touching my arm. But before she can finish her sentence, Lord Malcolm and Lady Daphne arrive at her side.

“Mordelia,” Lord Malcom says. “I hear you had a bit of an adventure today.”

Gulping, I look at Lady Daphne. “We’ll talk about it later,” She says, and glances behind us. A crowd of Aldovians and press have begun to gather.

Lord Malcolm takes Mordelia’s hand and steers her toward the building.

“The stage is set up in the courtyard,” He explains for my benefit. I nod in acknowledgement and follow the family inside.

For a stage, it’s understated. A slight platform, with a mic stand, and some chairs where I assume the family will sit. I move, as if to take a seat in one of the folding chairs, but Mordelia shakes her head, and gestures to the stage. I mouth a ‘No’ at her, but she counters with an emphatic ‘Yes’. I compromise by standing off to the side, next to the bodyguards. They glare at me, but don’t send me away. Mordelia rolls her eyes and gets on the stage without me. The family sits and talks among themselves.

Not wanting to risk trying to be friendly with the guard detail I’ve recently embarrassed, I sway on my feet, trying to stay warm. The press starts to take their seats, rubbing their hands together, making small talk as they wait. I see my car buddy in the audience, and he does a double take when he sees me but doesn’t give me away. Though he does give me this look like maybe he underestimated me.

We wait. And we wait. I can see Lord Malcolm is getting anxious. Although I was never given an itinerary, I can tell by the restlessness of everyone in the courtyard that events are behind schedule.

When Mordelia’s not looking, I whisper to the closest guard, “I’m going to find a restroom.” He raises an eyebrow, as if to say, ‘Like I care,’ and I take that as my cue to do what I want.

Shoving my hands into my pockets, I slip away from the crowd and find the nearest door. I wander the halls for a bit, in no hurry to get back to waiting in the cold for a speech I don’t particularly want to hear.

The walls are lined with bulletin boards and displays. Some boast upcoming activities, others showcase past events. It seems the boys get to go skiing, hiking, go-karting, and more. If my childhood had been like this… well. It’s not something I want to dwell on, but I’m feeling better about Baz choosing this as his charity.

I turn a corner and find the gymnasium, following the sound of a familiar voice.

“This simply isn’t acceptable,” Baz says.

I can’t hear who he’s speaking with, but his voice rings clear.

“I told him no press.” A brief pause. “I know what you were told by Lord Malcolm, but  _ I’m _ telling you: I refuse to give a speech... No, I won’t calm down. I am the future King, am I not? Do my words carry no more weight than the regent?” Here I’m guessing some groveling occurs. “Well, then listen to me and I’ll repeat myself. Again. Under no circumstance will I speak with the press today. This isn’t about  _ me _ . This is about the kids.”

The other person goes on their own tirade for a bit.

“I need some air,” Baz says, and suddenly I feel very conspicuous. Unfortunately, I have no chance to escape before Baz strides out of the gym and straight into me.

“Oh,” He breathes.

“I just got here.” Too quickly, I fear.

He raises an eyebrow at me. “Ok? Good for you.” Staring at me. “Can you?” He gestures, and I realize I’m standing directly in his path.

“Of course!” I step aside. “Sorry.”

He smirks, grimaces, then continues his long strides away from me. 

Falling back against the wall, I close my eyes and try to regain my footing. I’m getting a little tired of Baz ripping the floor out from under me every time I see him. When I open my eyes again, Baz is standing right in front of me, staring.

Jumping at the sudden appearance, “Warn a guy next time, Baz. Geez.”

This time, he gives me an unrepentant smirk. “Salisbury. I need your advice again.”

I shrug. “Always at your service, your highness.”

“Don’t do that,” He rolls his eyes. “Follow me.”

He heads into a nearby office, and, as he commands, I follow him. Once inside, I shut the door behind us. He wastes no time.

“How much of that conversation did you hear?” He asks.

“Enough,” I admit. There’s no point in lying, I figure.

He smiles, and my heart stops. Because it’s genuine again. “So you can guess my conundrum?”

I nod. “You don’t seem very fond of the standard press conference.”

Scoffing, “That’s an understatement. But it’s Lord Malcolm’s preferred method of interacting with the media, and he keeps overruling me when I reject his idea to host them.”

“Why are they so offensive to you?”

He groans. “They’re just so… fake.” Then, he gives me a look full of meaning I can’t decipher. “I stand in front of a room full of reporters, give a speech twenty people have edited into meaninglessness. Then, the audience asks questions I’ve already anticipated, so I can give answers that don’t answer anything. It’s pointless.”

I laugh, receiving a glare for my outburst. “Sorry, it’s just—Mordelia said you were great at oration. I just didn’t expect to agree with her.”

“Your point?” 

“None,” I shake my head. “Only, what’s the goal here?”

He cocks his head. “What do you mean?”

“Like, what’s your desired outcome? When you leave today, what can have happened that you will consider this day a success?”

“Pissing off Lord Malcolm?” He jokes.

It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “No. I mean, you picked the orphanage as your charity.” Baz winces a bit at this, and I wave his guilt away. “It’s fine. You did it for a reason, and it’s not my place to judge. But honor that reason. Did you think it’d make you look good, picking orphans to celebrate during the holidays?”

It’s a low blow, and I don’t exactly mean it, but I do want to hear him deny it.

“Absolutely not,” He crosses his arms across his chest. “And how dare you assume that.”

I shrug, which is clearly not the right answer, but whatever. He asked my advice, and he’ll get it my way or not at all. “So then, why did you do it?” 

“My mother—” 

Again, I stop him. His eyes darken, and I know I’m on thin ice. I don’t care. If he can shut me off, then I can be the voice of reason he so desperately needs. “That’s not what I’m asking. What do you want the power of your office to accomplish here?”

He stares at me.

“Well?” I prod.

“Oh, are you going to let me answer this time?” He jabs back. 

I can’t help myself; I grin. At least I know I can still get to him, even if it’s an adverse reaction.

When he realizes I’m not going to interrupt him, he tries again. “Well.” He looks up at the ceiling. “I mean, if I had one goal it’d be that every one of these boys finds a home.”

He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, staring at his feet.

“Now that I say that out loud, it sounds stupid,” He says.

“No,” I blink, and he looks up at me. “That’s a great place to start. How do you think you’d accomplish that?”

“Certainly not by standing in front of reporters giving a canned speech,” He snarks.

I laugh, “Definitely not. So, again, how would you accomplish that?”

He clears his throat. “I really don’t know. I mean, how would you?”

I should have expected him to throw this back at me, so I volley. “Well, what makes a home?”

“God,” He groans. “This is starting to feel like therapy.”

“Good strategic planning often does,” I smile. He returns it, and for a brief moment, we’re back in my bedroom, him helping me with my bow tie. I run my hands through my hair to shift the mood.

“I’ll start,” I compromise. “To me, home is somewhere you feel safe. Somewhere with people who accept you, no matter where you come from or why you’re there. Home is having enough to eat, and the support to follow your dreams. Home is love, and warmth, and security.”

He laughs, “If that’s home, I don’t know if I’ve ever had that. Except for the enough to eat part. I guess I’ve always had that.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

I want to reach out to him, to draw him into my arms and tell him he’s accepted as he is. But I don’t; he wouldn’t want me to. So, I kick his shin instead.

“Well, be grateful for that, I guess.” 

“What about you?” He swallows. “Did you ever find your home?”

“I did,” I grin. “It took awhile, but eventually, yeah. I was adopted at age 11 by a wonderful woman named Ebb. She’s the one who taught me what home is. But,” I clear my throat. “I’m hoping I’ll be able to build a home of my own someday. With a partner I love.”

I let the word ‘partner’ linger in the air for a bit, before returning to the task at hand.

“Baz, from what I can see of this orphanage, it looks like these boys already have a home. True, it’s not the most conventional, but since when is convention a prerequisite for happiness? So, honor that. Use your spotlight to remind people that, during this holiday season, there are those among us who don’t have a home.That’s all you can do today, given that you were supposed to give this speech, like, thirty minutes ago.”

I clap Baz on his shoulder, “Then, afterwards, pick a reporter who can follow you through the orphanage, learn about its services, and meet the boys. It’ll mean a lot to them.” I open the door to the office, taking a beat, before deciding to bare a little more of my soul. “Getting highlighted in a news story is what brought me to Ebb.”

Then, I return to the courtyard. I don’t look back.

**Baz**

Fuck. Simon keeps dropping these truth bombs on me that make me understand him, and it’s becoming very difficult to hate him. Especially when combined with his abrasive and annoyingly expert advice giving. I’m used to advisors, well, advising. I’m not used to people asking me insightful questions designed to help me discover my own path. It’s infuriatingly attractive of him.

Well. Two can play this game.

**Simon**

The courtyard seems seconds away from total chaos when I return. Mordelia catches my attention, her eyes pleading for relief. Given the looks on her parent’s faces, she’s not the only one. The reporters are shouting questions, none of them discernable from one another. It’s just shy of total pandemonium.

I retake my spot next to the bodyguards, who seem on edge with the rising tensions.

Then, Baz walks into the courtyard, and silence falls.

He walks onto the stage, owning the room. He side-hugs Mordelia, then Lady Daphne. Lord Malcolm pulls him in for what appears to be a handshake but appears more like a brief upbraiding. Baz takes the scolding in stride, finding his way to the microphone without a hair out of place.

“My fellow Aldovians,” He starts. “It gives me great pleasure to speak with you here, today, at the site of the Boy’s Home of Aldovia. As many of you know, this building was the design of my late mother, Queen Natasha. She envisioned a place where young boys without homes might find community, both with one another and with Aldovia. I regret that home is still an abstract concept for many Aldovians, but I am encouraged by the example the Boy’s Home provides for the young men living here. I can only hope that those among us that are blessed with an abundance of love at this holiday season, remember to share that love with our neighbors and fellow Aldovians.”

He clears his throat, and I get the feeling he’s about to go off script.

“A friend of mine,” Here, he smiles warmly at me, which creates a reaction in me on which I don’t want to linger, “Reminded me that home is somewhere you feel safe. Where you feel accepted. While today is not about me, I do want to express my gratitude to my family, for their enduring support, acceptance and love.” At this, I sense a shift in Lord Malcolm’s demeanor, and guess that Baz’s words have significant meaning for him, not entirely positive. “As many of you who’ve lost loved ones know, the holidays are never easy. I’ll never stop missing my mother.” He pauses here, and even the cynic in me knows it’s genuine. “Being here, today, reminds me that her legacy lives on, and I’m honored to have even a small part of it. Thank you.”

Baz doesn’t stop to take questions, but he does beckon me to the stage. Gulping, I comply.

When I reach the stage, he leans down to whisper in my ear. “Pick out a reporter to accompany me, yeah?” I nod. “And,” He pauses. “Will you join us as well?”

“Of course, Your Highness,” I say, and wink.

Baz’s glare is totally worth it.

Looking into the audience of annoyed and discarded journalists, I catch the eye of my car buddy. I can’t explain why, but I trust him more than the other vultures in the audience, especially given our brief conversation back at the castle. When I give him a smile and cock my head, his face undertakes a journey from confusion to understanding in less than five seconds, and he practically bowls over his colleagues to reach me.

“Interested in taking a tour of the orphanage with the Prince?” I ask. “It’s not undercover investigation work, but I promise it’ll be more fulfilling than gossip.”

He claps me on the back. “It’ll be my pleasure.” 

I wave at Mordelia, and guide my friend inside. Just before we walk in, I take his shoulder. “I doubt I have to tell you this, but just so we’re clear: not a word about how we met, and no questions about whether the Prince is taking the throne, ok?” He gives me a curious gaze, and I add, “Today’s about the kids.”

He nods. “Guess I was wrong about you needing a new career? You seem to have found your feet well enough.”

I look ahead, and catch Baz looking at me, full of fire and purpose from his speech earlier, his eyes bright and his skin glowing, even in the unflattering incandescent lights of the orphanage. My heart stops in my chest, again, and you’d think I’d be used to it by now, the way Baz keeps taking my breath away, but I am absolutely not. 

Found my feet?

_ I fucking wish _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the unintended hiatus. I had a slight existential crisis (as one does). I'd really hoped and planned to have this story finished by Christmas, but, oh well! Clearly that didn't happen. I tried to make this chapter a little extra Christmasy. Enjoy.


	13. Another Crisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, did we all forget Simon was in Aldovia to actually write something? Simon is not doing well in his career, Baz sort of feels bad, and car buddy gets a name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the unplanned hiatus. For a time, I decided I hated this story (in the way that perfectionists hate things that fail to live up to their potential) and only recently revisited it (because unlike my third grade self, I aspire to finish the projects I start, goddammit).
> 
> If you've been reading since the beginning, you may want to go back and have a re-read. I've made some revisions and added a few things. Nothing is really plot-wrecking, although car buddy gets a hint of a backstory. You can probably read on without too much confusion, but hit me up in the comments if you don't want to re-read and get caught in a plot hole caused by my minor edits.
> 
> If you're just now starting to read this piece, I hope you enjoyed this completely irrelevant-to-you note!

**Simon**

Mr. Bill Appleton (the reporter formerly known as car buddy) is a saint and I’m genuinely grateful fate put us in the same vehicle my first day in Aldovia. Throughout the interview, he validates my gut instincts of being a reporter of integrity and I can tell Baz is pleased. I’d be pleased as well… if it weren’t for the fact I’ve just given away my first opportunity at a royal exclusive, after more than two years of a Prince Basilton media blackout.

As evidence of my failure, my phone buzzes incessantly the entire interview. When we break for a snack, I scan through my many missed calls and texts from Penny, Davy and Niall; Penny’s texts are mostly filled with concern for my well-being, whereas Davy’s texts showcase his extensive knowledge of curse words (in five different languages). Niall, on the other hand, has mostly been sending me various gifs and videos of people falling off cliffs, which, more so than the other forms of communication, best illustrate my current situation.

Basically, I’m fucked.

**Baz**

I don’t know how Simon’s managed to find the one reporter with integrity out of a field of snakes, but I’m impressed with Appleton’s professionalism. He avoids personal questions, focuses on the kids, and generally seems to understand the importance of my mother’s legacy.

While one positive press interaction isn’t enough to undo years of negative ones, I feel cautiously optimistic at the end of the event. It doesn’t hurt that the boys seem thrilled with the attention, proudly showing Appleton their rooms and inviting him afterward to a snack in the dining hall (which is palatable even by my high standards). He leaves shortly after his snack, promising to send the article to my press office before publication to check facts.

The family and staff stay behind in the dining hall with the boys, all except Lady Daphne and the head of our security detail who step out for a private discussion (apparently something happened right before my speech and while Mordelia seems to know, she throws on a pair of shades I’ve never seen before and pretends not to hear me everytime I ask about it).

Giving up on discovering Mordelia’s secret, I chance a glance at Simon and find him at the end of the table, scowling at and typing furiously on his phone. If I had to guess, he’s living through the wreckage I’ve created by giving both a press release and an exclusive interview for the first time in years… and not giving him the chance to report on either of them.

From the look on Simon’s face, it’s clear that he must be in deep shit with his editor. 

I shouldn’t care. I don’t. Simon’s the one who pretended to be a tutor, in some convoluted scheme to get close to me, however pure his intentions. It’s not my fault he can’t report on this story without blowing his cover.

As he stares at his phone, Simon’s expression turns to pure dread. From the flickering of his screen, I assume he’s facing an incoming call. Simon sighs, excuses himself from the table, and takes the call in the hallway.

Mordelia pokes me in the side. _Follow him_ , she mouths at me, cocking her head in a very obvious gesture toward the door. Before better instincts kick in, I take her advice, and head to the hallway, just in time to catch the start of Simon’s conversation.

“What the fuck, Simon?” A voice yells over Simon’s phone.

“Hi Davy,” Simon responds tonelessly.

Davy, whoever he is, avoids pleasantries. “How come that royal prick gives a speech to the press for the first time in years and my reporter, in whom I’ve invested thousands of dollars including an international plane ticket, isn’t even in the audience?”

Ah, I’m guessing this is Simon’s editor.

“Then, I call the inn when you don’t pick up your fucking cell phone, which I pay for by the way, and I find out you’ve checked out? Where the hell are you?”

“I found accommodations with a friend, closer to the castle,” Simon explains.

If it weren’t for years of experience with schooling my face devoid of emotions, my jaw might drop. I can’t believe Simon hasn’t told his editor he’s working _inside the castle_. My measure of Simon’s integrity skyrockets. Shit. I think I’ve played this whole situation wrong.

“I don’t give a damn about your morning commute, Salisbury. Why weren’t you at the press conference?”

“I was,” Simon answers.

There’s a pause. Then, in a calm but terrifying voice, Davy asks, “Then where is my story?”

When Simon doesn’t answer immediately, Davy continues. “Never mind. I don’t care about some stupid fluff piece about his dead mommy’s charity. Get me dirt on the Prince, by Christmas Eve, or consider yourself fired.”

I imagine this will be the end of the conversation, given the finality in Davy’s voice, but Simon interrupts before Davy can hang up. “Why dirt? Why does it have to be _negative_?”

“Because dirt sells,” Davy explains like he’s talking to a toddler. “Besides they’re _royals_. There’s no way they’re clean under the surface. No one in any position of unelected power is ever clean.”

“I mean, technically, aren’t you in a position of unelected power?” Simon asks, and it’s all I can do not to laugh out loud.

Davy growls. “Get me the dirt, or you’re fired. Conversation over.” Then, he hangs up.

Before I can get caught, I rush back to the dining hall. Mordelia looks up at me when I sit back down, raising one eyebrow. I shake my head in confusion.

“I think you’re right. I think we can trust Simon,” I whisper to her.

She gives me a look that screams DUH, like she’s been waiting for me to come to this conclusion all along. Heaven help the world when Mordelia’s old enough to run it.

**Simon**

I lean against the wall with my eyes closed, gathering my wits.

I’m going to lose my job. There are no if’s and’s or but’s about it because there’s no way I’m bringing dirt on Baz to Davy. I don’t care if I have to move back in with Ebb; I refuse to betray Baz’s trust. Or his family’s.

Still, there’s a story here. Something Baz isn’t telling me. Something I want to tell. If only he’ll trust me. If only there’s a way to share the story, without making it a tear-down piece.

I exhale and open my eyes. Time to head back to the dining hall before anyone questions my absence. 

As I turn the corner, I sniff. There’s something familiar in the air… something flowery and also like… trees?

Something like...

Bergamont.

Oh god. It’s Baz’s cologne. Meaning he was just here. Meaning…

He knows my secret.

When I open the doors to the hall, Baz and Mordelia look up at me simultaneously. There’s a look in both of their eyes: concern. Not surprise, not shock. And it dawns on me. The recent cold shoulder from Baz... he’s known since yesterday.

My heart drops to my stomach. I turn right around and walk away. Straight into Lady Daphne.

“Simon,” She says. “A word?”

I nod, and follow her down the hallway because, fuck it, this day can only get worse. We stop at almost the exact spot where I spoke with Davy and I think it seems fitting to get basically fired in the same location.

“How can I help you, Lady Daphne?”

She frowns. “My security detail informed me of your ‘outing’ with Mordelia.”

Oh shit. I’d totally forgotten about that. God, how many bad decisions can one make in a single day?

She continues, not allowing me the space to respond or defend myself. “And I just wanted to say,” She takes a deep breath. “Thank you.”

“What?” I say, before I can stop myself.

Now, she smiles. “It may not be clear from the strength Mordelia so willingly displays that the transition into the castle hasn’t been easy. She grew up in a very different environment, one where she was free to have friends and explore on her own without the pressures or scrutiny that come with being royalty.”

I nod, “I can tell.” Then, to reassure her, “Not that she seems unhappy. Only, I think it gets lonely in the castle.”

Lady Daphne blinks. “You’re very observant, Simon. I didn’t think anyone else noticed.”

I shrug. “I think maybe she lets me notice.”

“She’s lucky to have you,” Lady Daphne says, laying a hand on my shoulder and squeezing it gently. Then, the squeeze tightens just shy of too painful to handle, and her eyes darken. “However, next time, send me or Lord Malcom a text if you plan to ditch the security detail. I don’t care how much she likes you; if you put my daughter’s life at risk, there will be consequences.”

“Yes ma’am,” I squeak, and her face shifts from predatory to motherly (although, it’s possible those looks are more similar than I’d previously thought).

“Now,” Lady Daphne continues. “Why don’t you take the afternoon off? Get to know our city better? You’re a young man, after all. It’s not fair to keep you cooped up in the castle.”

“Are you sure?” I ask.

She nods. “Think of it as my gift to you. I’ll arrange to have a car pick you up later this evening at the Towne Pub, which I highly recommend.”

Then, before I can second guess her offer, she slips a few bills in my hand and walks away. At least now I know where Mordelia gets her spine.

**Baz**

Daphne comes back from her conference and announces, “It’s time to head home.”

The boys groan, but hug the family and staff fondly.

As we make our way toward the exit, I sidle up to Daphne. “Where’s Simon?” I ask.

“He’s staying behind. I gave him the afternoon off.”

“That was kind of you,” I say, hoping for more details. Unfortunately, Daphne remains silent on the topic, and I fear asking more questions will draw too much attention to Simon’s and my secret.

Instead, I find Mordelia and lean into her. “Simon’s been given the afternoon off - can you tell me _now_ what happened earlier?”

She has the good sense to look concerned, before dropping her sunglasses back down on her face and turning her nose up in the air.

I regret ever having taught her that trick of deflection.

In the motorcade back to the castle, I let Mordelia distract herself on her phone like the teenager she is, and I watch the scenery pass while my thoughts drift. I’m worried about Simon. What will happen to him if he gets fired? Can he afford to live without a steady income? Could he be persuaded to stay at the castle? Would Lady Daphne and Lord Malcolm even entertain the possibility?

There’s so much I don’t know about Simon. I’m ashamed to admit that, besides being a hard worker and a talented student, my attraction to him so far has been skin deep. Sure, I guess I also know he’s modest. He’s unafraid to dance despite his lack of talent. He’s good with Mordelia. No, he’s _great_ with Mordelia. He’s also, apparently, trustworthy and full of integrity. Plus, he’s brave. 

And all of this despite the fact he spent his formative years without parents.

Well, maybe I do know Simon better than I thought. It’s not just golden curls and broad shoulders that draws me to him.

Still, does any of this explain why, due to the awful day he must have had, and the forlorn look he’s been wearing since I turned the cold shoulder on him yesterday, all I want to do right now is hold him tight and tell him everything will be fine?

I know he’s strong. He’s had to be, from what I can tell. But I want to become a place for him where he can be weak. I want him to learn to lean on me

God. I want him to...

I stop myself. Reaching into my blazer pocket, I pull out a pair of sunglasses and put them on. Deflection, it seems, is something I should now practice on myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those of you who've stuck around despite 1) inconsistent updates and 2) an unknown ending point. I do have the next chapter in the works, and a vague idea of how I want this all to play out (including, some day, an explanation of Mordelia and the goat).
> 
> Also, I have yet to name Aldovia's capital city. Any suggestions?


	14. A Night On The Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon makes a new friend and uncovers some secrets.

**Simon**

For someone who’s spent a lifetime with barely a cent to his name, I make a surprisingly efficient shopper. In the span of an hour, I’ve found gifts for Penny, Ebb and Niall (a book on Aldovian history, a scarf made from Aldovian wool, and a Prince Basilton commemorative plate, respectively), as well as for Mordelia (another set of disguises and a tiny figurine goat that screams when you press a button). 

I can’t decide on what to get Daphne and Vera, so I resolve to bake them each my special pumpkin chocolate chip cookies (assuming I don’t get fired before then… in which case, I probably wouldn’t have wanted to get them a gift anyways). 

As for Baz. Well, it’s hard enough for me to even think about him right now, let alone plan a Christmas gift.

My town wanderings end up leading me straight to the Towne Pub.  _ Of course _ , I think. All roads lead to drink at this point. Well, at least it’s royalty approved, and I may as well find somewhere and something to bring some warmth to my limbs. 

Inside, the Pub is rustic but clean, full of homey details and cozy corners. I skip the privacy of a booth for a seat at the bar counter and order a porter with a low ABV. Hopefully my sorrows can be drowned without getting too wasted to make a presentable entrance back at the castle. Although, I don’t know why I want to be in a position to remember my dismissal.

I make sure to give myself a wide berth from other patrons, not excited to chat while I wallow. To my dismay, someone takes the seat next to me. I let out an involuntary sigh, and angle my shoulders to indicate my disinterest in making small talk, but the stranger disregards my body language.

“Tough day?” He asks.

The Midwestern accent catches my attention, but not enough to override the barriers I put up. “The kind I’d like to suffer in silence, thanks.”

But he’s a persistent one. “That’s no good,” He says. “No one should ever suffer in silence.”

I risk a look to find a smiling face and kind eyes. His hair is cut in a fashionable fade, but his clothes are worn, jacket slung over his shoulders and the short sleeves of his t-shirt reveal a series of cryptid-themed tattoos.

Fuck. He looks like someone I’d like to befriend.

I stick my nose back in my beer, hoping he’ll get the point. It’s no use. He’s smelled my approval, and he moves in for the win. 

Interrupting my beer line of sight with his hand, the stranger introduces himself. “The name’s Shepard. Nice to meet you.”

I’ve never been one for manners, but I know better than to leave a hand unshaken. I sigh intentionally, and twist in my seat to face him. He readjusts the position of his hand so it’s more convenient for my new position, and I take it in mine for a firm shake.

“Simon Salisbury,” I say. “Pleasure.”

Shepard’s grin widens. “I doubt you mean that, but I appreciate the gesture.” He waves down the bartender and orders a cider. “So, what’s got you down this evening?”

I shake my head. “I thought it was the bartender’s job to ask those sorts of questions.”

He shrugs. “I’m a curious person.”

My intuition flares. “Are you a reporter?”

“Wow,” He responds, his eyes widening. “You’re good. I thought I didn’t look the type.”

“Like smells like,” I reply, giving him a wry smile.

The bartender picks this moment to deliver Shepard’s drink. They nod at each other, but Shepard waits until the bartender is outside of earshot to continue. “You must be chasing the elusive Prince story. Been a lot of you folk around these days.”

“You speak as if you’re not on the same beat,” I say, his phrasing catching my full attention.

“I am, and I’m not,” He answers cryptically. But he doesn’t let me stew in curiosity. “Really, I’m always on the lookout for a good story. The Prince probably has one, but I can tell you do, too. And I’d like to know it, if you’re interested in sharing.”

Something about him makes me feel comfortable sharing my story, but I did sign all of those NDAs…

Sensing my hesitation, he adds. “Everything you tell me is off the record.” He pulls out his phone and lets me watch as he turns it off. Then, he puts it back in his pocket. “I’m not on duty,” He reassures me. “I’ve taken a personal interest in you, not professional.”

I shift a little in my seat, and he throws his hands up. “Not like that!” He says. “Not that you’re not attractive; you’re just not my type.”

“Well, this has been an exercise in surreal.” I laugh, finishing off my beer. “And given this week, that’s saying something.”

I push back from the barstool, and move to stand up. Shepard stills me with an arm. 

“One drink, on me. Satisfy an off-duty journalist’s curiosity?” He begs. “I’ve been told I give really good advice.”

His eyes plead with me, and I can’t help but believe him. My instincts  _ were  _ dead on about Bill, they normally are. The only time anyone’s ever defied my intuition has been Baz, and I’m pretty sure most of my believing him an asshole came from unresolved sexual tension (after the past couple of days with Baz, I’m very familiar with that feeling).

“Fuck it. I’m desperate. I could use an outsider’s perspective,” I admit, settling back in my seat.

He motions to the bartender for another round. With our drinks replenished, I tell him as much of my story as I can without breaching contracts.

Three beers later, I’m feeling buzzed and comfortable. Shepard and I relocated to a corner booth for more privacy, and he’s laughing at a story about Penny and me.

“So what did you do with the fetal pig when the teacher caught you breaking in?” Shepard asks.

I wince. “I sat on it.”

“You--” Shepard doubles over, laughing. “You sat on the fetal pig.”

“I didn’t know where else to put it!” I reply, throwing my hands in the air.

“God that seems like the most on-Brand Simon reaction I’ve ever heard,” He says, wiping the tears from his eyes. “To claim conscientious objector because you feel bad cutting open something with a face, then you break into the lab after hours because you think  _ Wilbur _ deserves a funeral--”

“Ted,” I interrupt. “His name was Ted.”

“I’m sorry,” Shepard says, not sorry at all. “Ok, so you liberate  _ Ted _ for his funeral, only to get caught by your Biology teacher. And to avoid detention, you defile Ted’s memory by  _ sitting on him _ .”

I flush red. “I panicked!”

Shepard shakes with laughter. “Oh my god. So what did Penny do? I assume she’s the more rational of the two of you.”

I smile. “She pretended she’d dropped by for extra practice. Said her lab partner had hogged the whole dissection, and that she’d felt her education had been cheated.”

“And the teacher  _ bought that _ ?”

Nodding, “Trust me, if you’d met Penny, you’d believe it too. The woman does not take her learning lightly.”

“She sounds like some woman,” Shepard said, his eyes going dreamy.

I snap my fingers in front of his face. “No falling in love with Penny!” I command. “At least, not until you meet her.”

My back pocket starts buzzing. “Speak of the devil,” I say, and answer the FaceTime. “Penny! Hi!”

“Hello, Simon. Have we been drinking?” She smirks.

I roll my eyes. “Duh! Here, meet Shepard. I have to use the restroom.” I pass my phone over to a beaming Shepard.

I’m out of the booth and halfway to the toilet when I hear Shepard’s laugh. Looking over my shoulder, I can tell by the look on his face that he’s smitten on first Skype. God help Penny. Or Shepard. Actually, they might just be perfect for each other.

I use the facilities, then splash my face with cold water. Though I’m a long way from sober, I’m not without my full faculties yet. On my way back to the table, I pick up another round, as well as two glasses of water.

“Last drink,” I tell Shepard, holding up one finger. 

He grins back, and hands me my phone.

“Maybe you should sit this round out,” Penny suggests from my hand.

“I got water, too, Penny,” I grunt as I slide back into the booth. “Besides, I’m drowning my sorrows. Can’t do that sober.”

Penny exhales a long suffering sigh. “ _ Fine _ , Simon. Just, be careful, and call me when you get home.”

“Will do, mom,” I yawn, and hang up before she can yell at me.

Shepard shakes his head. “Bad move, dude.”

I laugh. “I’m living dangerously! I am a man on the edge. Of life. And stuff.” I think that makes sense.

“Mmhmm,” He hums, raising an eyebrow.

Which reminds me of Baz. I throw my head in my hands, groaning. “What am I going to  _ do _ , Shep?”

He pats me gently on my head. “It’s a little hard to give good advice when you’ve left out half the story.”

“I know, but I have reasons, I swear,” I mumble into my palms.

I think Shepard murmurs something about discretion and obviousness, but I’m not sure.

Retreating from ostrich-mode, I look at Shepard. “Seriously. What should I do?”

“Well,” He starts, looking a bit uncomfortable. “For starters, I think you should quit your job.”

My mouth drops. “What?”

He coughs into his hand. “Look, it’s possible I haven’t been completely honest.”

I cross my arms in front of me, but let him continue.

“I said I was a journalist, but I’m actually the owner of a fairly popular blog,” Shepard admits.

“A blog.” I repeat.

He sighs. “Yes.” After a pause, “I know it doesn’t sound lucrative, but it’s been picking up hits lately. It started as a way for me to share sightings of a…”

“Cryptoid nature,” I venture.

Glancing down at his tattoos, Shepard grins. “Got me in one. See?” He fixes me in an intense brown-eyed stare. “I knew you were good. You’ve got good instincts, good eye for detail. A penchant for secrecy. I’d guess you’re a model of integrity and goodness as well.”

I frown.

“And modest!” He adds, smiling. Then, he turns serious. “But, I think I know where you work and who you work for."

“How would you know that?” I ask, eyebrows furrowed.

He gives me a half-grin. “Your accent sort of tipped me off; most of the journalists here are international. You’re clearly from New York.”

“But there are more than a few publications in NYC,” I point out.

Shepard laughs. “More than a few is a bit of an understatement, but I catch your meaning. Still, Aldovia’s a small country, and despite Prince Basilton’s raw sexual appeal, debating about his decision on whether to take the throne is hardly an American pastime. They’d much rather focus on his hair than what’s sitting atop it.”

I raise a shoulder. “I still don’t understand how these facts add up to my publication.”

“I’m getting there,” Shepard says. “It’s Watford, isn’t it?”

The look on my face is as good as an answer. Shepard nods.

“I used to work there,” Shep admits. “Davy’s a real piece of work, isn’t he?”

“I barely know him,” I say. Then, I give him the real answer, “Yes.”

Shaking his head, “No one hates the Pitches like Davy. I have no idea what happened there, but when I started a few years back, Prince Basilton was studying at NYU and Davy was obsessed with him. Had me following him to nightclub after nightclub, trying to catch the Prince doing… well. I’m not exactly sure what he was trying to find.”

I feel the blood drain from my face, and Shepard punches my arm gently. 

“Yeah,” He nods. “I recognize you. Don’t worry, your befriending the Prince never warranted a memo to Davy. I mostly pretended to be incompetent at taking low light photos until he fired me. Couldn’t stand his attitude and his lack of integrity. I understand public figures lose some sense of privacy, but it never sat right with me trying to out someone who so clearly wanted to stay in, if you know what I mean.”

I let out a shaky exhale. Somehow, I’ve managed to go from almost drunk to sober sick within the span of a few sentences.

“Your secret’s safe with me, Simon,” Shepard says. “Both of yours. I can tell you care about him. So why don’t you just ask me what you want to ask, knowing that I already know the particulars?”

“Honestly, I hardly know my name at this point, let alone what question I’m supposed to be asking,” I smile weakly at Shepard. He keeps his stare impassive, allowing me a few moments to compose myself and continue. “I just want to help him. There’s potential there. I’m not sure if it’s the ability to be a good leader, or something else, but the man has a purpose, and I feel like I could assist somehow. Is that completely egotistical of me?” I ask.

Shepard shakes his head. “No, Simon. I don’t think it is. I think you see someone in pain, who needs to heal their past in order to embrace their future.” Smiling, “It’s possible what you see in Prince Basilton is something reflected in yourself.”

I laugh. “Shit, Shep. You do give good advice.”

“I told you!” He beams. “But seriously, Simon. My blog is way beyond Bigfoot sightings and Mothman poetry at this point. We do interviews with groundbreaking scientists, publish incisive investigative reporting, report on the latest trends, and help launch musical careers. More than that, we enjoy a growing LGBTQIA fanbase. Not that that has any significance in anything we’ve been saying!” Shepard says, his arms in the air, surrendering before I can unleash my protective wrath.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.

He laughs. “I thought you were a good journalist, Simon.”

I take a beat. “Are you offering me a job?”

He shrugs. “Not yet. But I’m certainly offering you an opportunity.” He slides me a business card. “Send me an e-mail. Let me show you my readership numbers. And then, if you like what you see, maybe someday you’ll have another great story for me, like the ones you told me tonight.” He grins. “Only you’ll tell them on the record, with a byline.”

Before I can stop myself, I wrap my arms around Shepard in a bear hug. “Thanks, Shep. I hope I can take you up on that."

Then, the wheels in my brain crank a little harder. “Shit. Do you think Davy knows about my friendship with Baz?”

“I don’t know, Simon. But I think it’d be smart to assume he might.”

With this weight on my brain, we part ways for the night.

Just like Lady Daphne promised, a chariot awaits to take me back to the castle.

The sobering conversation and revelations with Shepard aside, I still feel lopsided making my way through the castle hallways. Which makes it dangerous to call Penny, which I do anyways.

“Penny!” I whisper loudly. “I’m home."

“Simon,” Her sleep-drenched voice greets me. “Did you have a good time tonight?”

“Yeah,” I admit. “Shepard’s a cool guy.”

“Hmm,” Penny hums. “Seems like it.”

I yawn. “‘Sgot secrets though.  _ My _ secrets.”

“That’s nice, Simon,” Penny mirrors my yawn. “Are you almost to your room?”

“Yes, mom,” I reply, finally having found my hallway.

She growls. “Don’t start that.”

I fumble with my shopping bags, trying to find my room key. Except, when I turn the knob while trying to insert my key, the door swings open.

“Simon,” A voice says from the direction of my bed. Baz’s voice. “I think we need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, Shepard was so much fun to write! I hope you enjoyed this chapter; the secrets are finally starting to come out.


	15. A Series of Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets spill, flirting happens, and Mordelia just wishes she'd woken up as a giant cockroach.

**Simon**

This is it. The moment I’ve feared. Baz knows my secret, and I’m being kicked out.

Also, it’s way too goddamn bright in here.

“So, did you have a good time in Genovia?” Baz asks.

I blink. “I thought we were in Aldovia.” I also thought I had sobered up a bit, but apparently I’ve hallucinated myself into the land of Mia Thermopolis.

“We  _ are _ in Aldovia, but we are also…” Baz pauses. “Sweet lord, Simon. Did you not know that we’re in Aldovia’s capital city of Genovia?”

This day keeps getting weirder and weirder. “You mean to tell me that the capital of Aldovia is named Genovia? Are you fucking joking?"

“It’s a perfectly lovely name!” Baz sputters.

“Yes,” I reply, somehow keeping my face straight in light of this insanity. “But it’s also the name of the fictional country from 'The Princess Diaries.'” 

We stare at each other. I think Baz is trying to hide the fact that he knows exactly what I’m talking about.

**Baz**

He can’t tell I’m a complete Clarisse stan, can he? I’m just going to stare at him until he breaks the silence. It’s a strategy. Not a very good strategy, but it’s late, and he’s clearly drunk, so what’s good at this point?

Simon cracks first, as expected.

“Also, Genovia, Aldovia? Come on. Sounds a bit weird.”

I sigh. “Well, we normally call it Genovia City, but that’s besides the point. I believe we have something more serious to discuss.”

Because, we’ve been deflecting, and it’s time to have a conversation two and a half years in the making. Simon looks about as excited as I do by the prospect. His shoulders slump. Leaning back against the door, he heels off his shoes, then crosses the room to drag a chair closer to where I’m sitting on the bed. 

Plopping down gracelessly, he leans forward. “So, you know I’m a reporter.”

Well. That certainly speeds things along.

“How did you know I knew?” I ask.

He gives me a sheepish smile, pops of red appearing in his cheeks, and they weren't there before so he can't blame the alcohol or the cold. “I could smell your cologne in the hallway after my conversation with Davy. Figured you heard the conversation, but when I walked into the dining hall, it was clear you weren’t angry. That's when I realized you’d known for some time. Factoring in your recent personality change, it was easy to figure out how long exactly.”

I nodded slowly, a little disconcerted at how easily he’d read me. Then again, it’s his job. I guess I should have expected he’d be good at it.

“So where do we go from here?” He asks. “Should I start packing?”

“No,” I answer embarrassingly quickly. His eyes widen in shock. “Mordelia likes you, and I’ve been thinking about what you said. About having a strategy to deal with the press so I can better control my image.” I smile, not without warmth, but still with reserve. “It was good advice, you know. I appreciated it, even if it came with some hidden baggage to which only one of us was privy.”

He smirks, and honestly I shouldn’t find it as cute as I do. “I’m finding it hard to take your compliments at face value, all things considered. Saying nice things about each other isn’t really something we do.”

“We don’t really talk, do we?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No, I guess we don’t.”

“Well, maybe we should,” I offer.

Smiling, he extends a hand, “Hi, the name’s Simon Salisbury. I’m from New York City, and I’m a junior editor for Watford Magazine.”

I take his hand, and shake it. “The name’s Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. Please don’t laugh at the Tyrannus; it’s a family name. I’m next in line for the throne of Aldovia, and I have to decide in the next 10 or so days whether or not I want to be King.”

We release each other's hands. Simon shoves his at the back of his neck and rubs nervously. 

“I’d like to keep on with this conversation, but I’m still a bit tipsy and more than tired at this point.” He grins. “Plus, I’ve been almost fired about three times.”

I laugh, “All right. Get your beauty rest; you certainly need it,” I wink.

I stand and head to the door. My hand’s on the knob when I hear Simon’s soft voice.

“Baz?” He starts.

Without turning around, I answer, “Yes?”

“Thank you,” He whispers.

“What for?”

“For trusting me, even when I’ve given you no reason to. It means a lot. You…” He pauses. “You mean a lot to me.”

I let out a slow exhale, hopefully too soft for him to hear. “It was really no trouble, Simon. It turns out, trusting you is one of the easiest things I’ve ever had to do.”

I’m halfway back to my room when it dawns on me how deeply I mean that.

**Mordelia**

Today feels like a fresh start, even if I don’t exactly know why yet. Dressed and ready for the day, I follow the sound of laughter to the library. I peek around the corner. Simon stands in the sunlight, glowing like an angel. His arms gesture wildly, telling some story about a fetal pig. He looks a bit crazed, I think, until I see the look on Baz’s face and realize what real crazy looks like. The rays of sun don’t land on Baz from his seated position on the couch, but his face is luminous as it gazes on Simon. The small smile doesn’t give him away, but his eyes sell his soul without permission.

They look beautiful. They look happy.

I sigh.  _ Finally _ . A fresh start.

“Have you boys stopped being stupid and keeping secrets?” I ask.

Simon laughs, pushing the sleeves of his cream-colored jumper up past his elbows, while Baz tries not to ogle his forearms. Unsuccessfully. “I should have known you might have masterminded something like this.”

I flutter my eyelashes. “Little ol’ me?”

Baz groans, and leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “God help us when she starts dating.”

I wrinkle my nose. “If boys are anything like you two, I think you have some time before  _ that _ happens.”

“If boys are anything like me, you won’t have to worry about them dating you,” Baz says, then straightens up, realizing the confession he’s inadvertently given. Simon turns sharply toward him, and he  _ beams _ like he’s been given a brand new butchering knife.

**Simon**

I mean, given Baz’s seduction of a few days ago, I was fairly certain his sexuality at least partially swang my way. But having it confirmed feels like exhaling a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

Which is good, because his outfit is  _ killing _ me today. He’s got this blood red floral shirt unbuttoned almost to the base of his sternum, and a pair of black jeans so tight I can’t imagine how he’d gotten them on. Or how I’d get them off (oh, but how I’d try). Also, it’s warm in the castle today, and Baz’s gone barefoot. I didn’t think I had a thing for feet until I saw his elegant arches and slender ankles, and oh god I’ve turned into a Victorian cliche fantasizing about a man’s  _ ankles _ .

It’s possible clearing the air has done more damage than good, because it’s unleashed every hormone I’d kept contained with the belief that if Baz knew who I really was he’d chunk me right out on the street before I could say, “Please don’t.”

Mordelia reads the room and announces, “I’m going to the kitchen because the rating of this room has just dialed up from PG to PG13 and I’d prefer to eat before you two put me off my breakfast.” Then, she picks up a copy of Kafka’s Metamorphosis because, “I need something to read that’s less surreal than whatever is happening in this room.”

Then, it’s just me and Baz.

**Baz**

I hope Simon’s reaction of Christmas-come-early means he hasn’t been put off by my accidental coming out. By the way his eyes keep dropping to where my shirt’s been unbuttoned, I don’t think my hope is in vain.

Although I am a bit unnerved by the way he looks at my ankles. That’s weird, right?

Except I’m equally entranced by his strong wrists, and when he pushes back the sleeves of his jumper, I almost faint. 

We’re both being ridiculous, but I guess it’s comforting to know we match.

“So,” I clear my throat. “Should we finish our conversation from last night?”

He nods, and joins me on the couch, taking the opposite end. “I suppose we should.” 

Then, I decide, fuck it. Life’s too short for this distance, and I put my feet in his lap.

Letting out a breathy exhale, he starts massaging my feet, which feels  _ divine _ , and begins talking.

“So, I mentioned last night that I’m a junior editor. Do you know what that means?” Simon asks, and I shake my head. He seems to expect this, and he continues. “It means I help the writers perfect their pieces. Correct their spelling and what not,” He winks.

I take the bait. “ _ You? _ Correcting  _ other people’s spelling? _ ” I tut. “They must be really hard up for talent.”

He laughs good-naturedly. “I know, right? But I have actually gotten better at spelling.” Here, he squeezes one foot for emphasis. “I had a good mentor.” 

I smile, and by the way it hurts I know it’s wide. I’m a besotted mess.

“Anyways, what I actually want to do is write.” He pauses his massage, and I let him, but I’m not happy about it. “I forgot to tell you - I was a double major in college. Journalism and English.”

“I suppose I could have assumed that, but I appreciate your telling me,” I reply. These little lies have to come out eventually, though I’m dreading my turn.

He restarts the massage and I let out a happy hum. I’ve become an embarrassing wreck of a man, but I can’t bring myself to care. “I applied for so many writing jobs after school, but the economy wasn’t great, so I branched out to editing gigs. After sending out a few revised resumes, I got a call out of the blue from Watford Publishing. It seemed like a dream come true, even though it wasn’t writing. They said I might eventually be able to move in that direction, so I took the job. I was even able to get my friend Penny hired as well. Of course, she was more interested in the editing side anyways. She’s always had a knack for cutting through bullshit.

“But I never gave up my dream of being a writer. I sent out story pitches and even finished pieces to publications all over the city, but only received rejections in return.” He paused. “It’s a sad fact that names matter, and mine had no meaning, so no one took me seriously.”

“I’m sorry, Simon,” I reply. “From someone who’s name means everything, I can tell you that the grass is always greener.”

“I know,” He says, giving my foot another squeeze. “I’m not bitter about it anymore, just stating how I felt at the time, and giving you a little understanding about why, when Davy offered me the opportunity to be a writer, finally, I took the job. Despite the fact it meant betraying you.”

I roll my eyes. “You never  _ betrayed _ me, Simon. God, you’ve had the means to destroy me for years and you never did. So what? You took a job because it was your dream. The only thing you did  _ wrong _ was lie to me about it.” I pause. “And also pretending to be Mordelia’s tutor. That was kind of shit as well.” But I smile at him, so he knows it’s all in the past now.

He laughs. “How are you being so cool about this?”

Shrugging, “I’ve had time to think about it, and Mordelia’s perspective helped. But I think, at the end of the day, you just have one of those trust-worthy faces.” His smile in return for this statement wrenches my heart, so I deflect. “Like a puppy, Simon. I can’t stay mad at your puppy-face.”

“Well,” He says, undeterred by my insult. “I feel like I owe you a more comprehensive massage for being so awesome.”

“Don’t start something you don’t intend to finish,” I warn him.

He gives me a predatory grin and slides his hands a few inches up my jeans. “Oh, I intend to finish.”

I gulp, not having expected him to play my own game against me. Before I can stop myself, I pull my feet out of his lap and onto the floor. Just as I’m starting to regret my decision, he swings his feet onto my lap. He raises his eyebrows at me, because I don’t think he’s capable of raising just one, but I get his implied question. After moving his feet away from where he might feel the evidence of my body’s reaction to him, I start my own massage. His indecent groan confirms I’ve made the right choice.

“Your turn,” He says, his eyes closed.

I stop my massage. “What do you think I’m doing?” I ask.

“Not the massage, although that’s nice.” He wiggles his feet. “Please continue. No, I meant, I’ve confessed a few of my secrets. Now it’s your turn to confess yours.”

Oh goody. “What do you want to know?”

“I’ll start with an easy one. Why did you invite me out that day in the library?”

I groan internally. He would think that was the easy question, and not the one secret I’ve been dreading since we started this honesty practice.

**Simon**

For some reason, my throw-away low stakes question stumps Baz.

“You don’t have to answer,” I tell him.

“No,” He groans. “I’ll tell you. It’s just really embarrassing.” He sighs. “I had a crush on you, ok? Now, laugh it up.”

I pull my feet out of his lap and kneel on the cushion beside him. “Baz, you may have had a crush on me, but I had a full-blown sexuality crisis because of you. Now  _ that’s _ embarrassing.”

“What?” He squeaks.

I nod. “I was straight before I met you. Now?” I shrug. “Not so straight.”

He closes his eyes and throws his head back against the couch. “You’re doing evil things to my heart, Simon.”

“Not just your heart, though, right?” I say, placing my hand just above his knee, then slowly inching it upwards. “Because your outfit is driving me  _ insane, _ ” I breathe into his neck.

But he stops my hand before it goes too far and I pull back. “We can’t,” He pleads, catching my eyes with his. 

I want to argue, beg him to let us have this, but I understand. There’s still so much we haven’t covered, so much still left to decide. Getting distracted will only serve us now, not later. And I have a feeling Baz is worth the wait.

“Ok,” I say. “Not yet.” 

He smiles, a little pained, but not unkind. “Not yet,” He agrees.

I push myself away and curl up in the corner, my arms around my knees. Otherwise, I’m pretty sure I’ll throw myself at him.

“Who’s turn is it now?” I ask.

“Maybe we should forget turns. Just ask what we want to ask, when we want to ask it.”

“Ok,” I say. “Why did you go to New York in the first place?”

“Pass,” He says.

“Pass? You can’t pass. That’s not in the rules.” I almost reach out to punch him playfully in the shoulder, but I hold back.

“What rules?” He waggles his eyebrows, then he drops the playful act. “Look, I can’t answer that question yet. Not until you answer another one of mine.”

“So ask.”

He looks at me, and sighs. “Are you going to write about me?”

I hold his stare. “I don’t know. I want to. I think you want me to. But it won’t be for Davy.”

“Why not?” His eyes sharpen, as does his posture. “Did he actually fire you?”

Shaking my head, “No, I’m going to quit.” 

**Baz**

“Quit?” I repeat. Of all of the responses, I didn’t expect that.

He nods. “I found out some things last night, from someone I met at the Pub.”

I try not to let it bristle that Simon met someone at a Pub, but I’ve never been the sharing type. “Who’s this, then?” I ask, and Simon gives me a look like he’s heard the hint of jealousy I’d tried to restrain.

“Another journalist,” Simon says. “Male. Not my type.”

I must look confused, because he adds, “Sorry, I guess I should clarify. You’re the only man I’ve ever been attracted to like that.”

Honestly. I want to ban Simon from dropping these truth bombs because my pants can’t take it and my heart soars everytime he confesses how he feels about me. It’s like I’m a goddamn teenager again and I love it. I mean, I hate it. Fuck. 

“Ok,” I say lamely, because I don’t know how to respond either to the statement, or the fact Simon’s acting like what he said is completely normal. “What did this other journalist have to say?”

“That he used to work for Davy that summer you and I met at NYU, and that he was paid to follow you around to try and get incriminating photos.”

My jaw drops. “What the fuck, Simon? Why the hell didn’t you tell me this before?” I’m five seconds from getting my lawyer on the phone to sue the pants off Watford and claim that film.

“Whoa, hold your horses.” Simon holds up his hands in mock surrender. “The journalist said he took shitty photos Davy couldn’t use until he got fired. I’m sure he’d give you the film if he hasn’t already burned it. I trust him.” 

My breathing starts to normalize. “I want to meet this guy,” I command.

Simon nods, then laughs. “Another journalist I’m setting you up with, instead of myself.”

I join him in laughter. “That was a bit shitty of me, wasn’t it?”

“Naw,” Simon shrugs. “It’s not like I can write about you while I’m acting as Mordelia’s tutor. What would Lady Daphne think?”

“True,” I admit. 

He relaxes a bit on the couch, looking less tense compared to his previous almost-fetal stance. “Maybe I’ll just stay as Mordelia’s tutor. Forget being a journalist.”

I level him with a skeptical look. “Simon, you're in the library with your charge’s brother while your charge eats breakfast with self-assigned homework. Do you really think you’re excelling at this tutoring game?”

“Probably not,” He smiles. “Besides, I’m terrible at math. And geography. And, really, everything except writing. Plus, if I’m Mordelia’s tutor, I can’t date you.”

I exhale. “If I’m going to be King, it doesn’t matter what your job is. I won’t be able to date you.”

We sit in that uncomfortable truth for a bit. Then Simon ruins it.

“Why not?”

An unkind chuckle escapes my throat. “Are you kidding me?” I look at him. He’s not. “How many gay kings do you know?”

“One?” He jokes, but I’m not laughing.

“It’s my job to provide an heir,” I explain.

“I mean,” He shrugs. “Isn’t it your job to rule the country? What does your sexuality have to do with that?”

He’s unbelievably dense. And naive. And adorable, but I’m not going there now. “Aldovia has a constitutional monarchy, Simon. I would rule but be subject to the country’s constitution, which stipulates I provide an heir. Hard to do that if you’re gay.”

I take a deep breath. I’ve never actually said all of that out loud. Not even to Dev.

“Does the heir have to be blood-related to you?”

My mouth makes an awkward grunt-squeak. “I actually… don’t know.”

Simon’s smile is bright, and infectious. “Well, why don’t we find out?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another fun chapter to write. Let's face it, the boys are so much more fun when they're together. Even if they can't be together just yet. Thanks to [Why_is_writing_so_hard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Why_is_writing_so_hard/pseuds/Why_is_writing_so_hard) for the suggestion of naming Aldovia's capital city Genovia. An inspired choice!


	16. A Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mordelia, Baz and Simon conduct some research. Baz (virtually) meets Penny. More sexual tension. Lord Malcolm may or may not approve of Simon.

**Simon**

While Baz and Mordelia scour the library for copies of the constitution and various legal interpretations, I draft a letter of resignation to Davy. It’s strangely cathartic, though I have no intention of sending my first draft, expletive-laden as it is.

I realize that, before I submit the letter to Davy, I’ll need to break the news to Penny. To break the ice, I take a screenshot of the first couple of lines and send it to Penny with a cryptic, “Thoughts?” caption.

She FaceTimes me immediately afterward. I take it into the hallway and answer.

“What the fuck, Simon?” She starts.

I rub my neck. “Hey, Penny.”

“Don’t ‘Hey, Penny’ me! First, you drop my call without a goodbye, you don’t call or text to let me know you’re allright, and then you send me a draft of your resignation letter? Are you really quitting?”

“Yeah, I’m really quitting,” I answer.

She pleads, “What happened yesterday? I heard Davy was throwing a tantrum in the penthouse, but I didn’t think it was related to _you_.”

“He wants me to dig up dirt on Baz, or else I’m fired. And you know I won’t do that.”

“Because you’re in love with him,” She deadpans. I wait for the punchline, but nothing comes.

Finally, my brain switches on. “I’m not in love with him!” I hiss, hoping her voice and mine aren’t traveling back to the library. At least, I’m not in love with him _yet_ , but I’m not really in a place to admit how deep I’m falling to myself, let alone Penny.

“Then what’s going on, because I am two minutes away from booking myself on a flight to Aldovia.”

“Technically, we’re in Genovia City,” I correct her.

“Simon!” She yells, and I’m pretty sure Mordelia and Baz can hear her exasperation through the closed door.

I sigh. “Yes, Penny?”

“Are you going to stop avoiding my questions and give me some real--oh, hello there.” Penny tucks her hair behind her ear in such a girlish manner, I don’t have to look at my screen to know who’s walked up behind me.

“Baz,” I say, catching his eyes along with Penny.

“And who is this young woman?” He drawls, and I swear Penny blushes.

“Penelope Bunce, your highness,” She flirts.

He winks. “As a friend of Simon’s, you can call me Baz.”

Her eyebrows fly upward. “I see.” She gives me a cheeky grin. “Well, this certainly explains a few things. Send me your draft, Simon. I’ll work some magic on it.”

“Thanks, Penny. You’re a lifesaver.”

She smiles at me fondly. “I know. You owe me some answers, by the way.” Then, she turns to Baz. “Be nice to him, Baz. He’s one of the good ones.”

“The best,” He replies, and I can tell by the look in Penny’s eyes that some puzzle pieces are coming together. 

Before I can reach the depths of apprehension that a Penny-figuring-shit-out look should invoke, she says, “He’s the guy from your English class, isn’t he?”

Baz’s face lights up with mirth, and I can’t hang up fast enough.

“Gotta go, Pen. Loveyoubyeeee!” I shout, and end the call before more incriminating statements can be made.

“She knows about me,” Baz teases. 

I shove my hands in my pockets. “Yeah, well, it’s hard to have a sexuality crisis in a vacuum, you know.”

He blinks. “I do, actually.” And the confession takes the sting out of my embarrassment a bit. I bump his shoulder with mine.

“Let’s go help Mordelia research, shall we?”

Despite the fact that we’ve searched every constitutional law book in the library, we can’t find anything that defines an heir other than a blood son or daughter of a royally married couple. Baz even lets me text Penny for research assistance, but the vague guidelines of “how other constitutional monarchies define an ‘heir’” isn’t enough for her to find anything useful.

She sends me the bad news with a sad face emoji, and a gif of two otters cuddling. I’m about to wonder what I’ve done to deserve her, when she asks me how Baz is doing and adds about 50 eggplant emojis.

I do not respond.

We break for bed looking how we feel: defeated and tired. I hit the sheets with a groan and a thump, but with my head on my pillow I suddenly lose the urge to sleep. Despite the disappointment of learning there’s no loophole to allow Baz to marry who he likes and adopt/sire an heir through alternate means, there’s a part of my anatomy that only remembers Baz’s crush confession and the feel of his thigh under my hand.

I close my eyes and picture him on the couch, only his shirt is closed all the way to his neck and I unbutton him slowly. With my teeth.

I slide my hand down and palm myself over my underwear. It doesn’t take long before I’m at full mast and ready to stroke with intent. This is going to be over embarrassingly fast. Thank god no one’s here to witness it.

The door swings open. “Simon, I forgot to mention--”

I sit up at Baz’s interruption, and pull the covers up to my neck like a blushing schoolgirl.

“ _Baz!_ ” I squeak. “Knock first!”

“ _Sorry_ ,” He says, rolling his eyes. Then, he looks at me and catches on to what he’s walked into. “Oh. Oh god, Simon. Really. I’m so sorry.”

I close my eyes and groan. There wasn’t enough time to tuck myself away, and I have a feeling he can see exactly what I’ve been _up_ to.

Especially since he can’t stop looking at it.

“I’m up here,” I mutter, and that finally shakes his attention.

“Obviously,” He says, snapping his eyes to mine while a flush creeps up his neck. Well, at least we’re both equally flustered. I remind myself that it’s perfectly normal to masturbate in the privacy of one’s bedroom, and, really, it’s _Baz_ who should feel guilty.

My arousal on full display, I straighten my shoulders and lean into the confidence I don’t feel. “Is there something you needed?”

“Uh,” He sputters, and his discomfort is delicious. It’s almost worth the interruption. Almost. The delay is starting to get painful. “I only meant to let you know that there’s another party tomorrow evening.” He clears his throat. “Again, so sorry to intrude. I’ll just go and uh.” He swallows and looks at the ceiling. “Let you get back to. Um. Whatever you were doing.”

Except he doesn’t move at all. He wrings his hands together, and his eyes keep flicking downward. My cock twitches with the attention.

I grin. “Is there anything else, then?” I ask. “Unless you’d like to stick around and help?”

His whole body tightens, and he almost flies out of the door. “See you tomorrow!”

Oh, yeah. With the memory of Baz’s eyes on me, I finish fast and hard.

  
  


**Baz**

I’m not up for ten seconds when the memory of last night comes barreling into my brain. I’d barely made it into my bedroom before I had my hand down my pants, pulling myself off to the memory of Simon’s tented sheets and the knowledge of what he was likely doing at the same moment as me.

I throw the covers over my head and groan. I’m not going to make this awkward. I’m not.

Dressed and ready, I take a steeling breath and head to the kitchen. Simon’s seated at the table with a cup of coffee. Alone.

“Sleep well?” I ask nonchalantly, like an adult.

He gives me an evil grin. “Oh yeah. I’m not sure how I pulled it off, because I was afraid for a moment that I’d be up all night. But before I knew it I was tugged right into dream land.”

That bastard. 

“Are we schoolboys now?” I drawl.

“Depends,” He smiles. “On whether you’ve got a uniform. And whether you’re willing to show it to me.”

I do, and I am, but I won’t. “It’s way too early in the morning for your innuendos,” I say, and thank god for Mordelia who walks in before Simon can continue his torture.

“Are we continuing the research today?” She asks, grabbing a plate and helping herself to a bagel.

And that reminder is certainly a downer. Simon’s shoulders droop noticeably.

“I don’t think so, Mordelia.” I reply. “There’s hardly any point. We’ve exhausted all of the resources in our library.” I sigh. “It’s time for me to admit the fact that I have to accept the crown.”

**Simon**

Baz’s defeat makes my heart hurt, and there’s nothing I can do except distract him. So I clap my hands together.

“Who wants to bake cookies?” I ask.

Baz and Mordelia stare at me like I’m crazy, but Mordelia eventually nods.

“Just let me go change first,” She says, and then she leaves Baz and I alone.

He looks ready to walk out of the kitchen as well, so I grab his shoulder. “Wait, there’s something I want to talk about first.”

“God, Simon, if you bring up your penis again, I don’t think I can take it.”

I bite my lip to avoid saying, _Phrasing!_ , and laugh instead. “No, Baz. That’s not exactly what I had in mind.”

He turns to face me. “What is it then?”

I run my hands through my hair. “I just wanted to tell you that I quit.” His eyes narrow, and I add quickly, “I quit my Watford job! Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You did it?” He asks. “You really quit?”

I nod. “Sent in my letter of resignation this morning. I gave two weeks, but Davy replied back not to worry.” I pause. “And also that I owed him for the plane ride, which really solidified that I’ve made the right decision.”

“What a prick,” Baz says. “I’ll reimburse you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I reply. “I have some money saved."

Baz rolls his eyes. “Don’t be an idiot. We’d have paid for your flight if you were an actual tutor anyways. Let me do this for you.”

I take a moment to think of my student loans. They aren’t much; my scholarship covered most of my tuition, and working at Ebb’s had helped, but I do have some debt. I sigh. “I guess I should stop fighting and just say thank you.”

Baz smiles. “Maybe you’re smarter than you look.”

When I open my mouth to make a smart ass remark, Mordelia comes back, and we decide to bake cookies instead.

Baking cookies is a lot more fun when I’m not being seduced without context by Baz. Instead, we dance around each other while pretending not to notice things. Like the way I stare at Baz’s ass whenever he faces away from me. Or the way my biceps flex when I stir the cookie dough (ok, I notice that a lot, and I’m not too proud to admit how flustered the flattery makes me). 

Three dozen pumpkin chocolate chip cookies later and Mordelia has had enough of our nonsense.

“Shag or fight!” She calls on her way out, a handful of warm cookies in her grasp. “I’m done with the sexual tension.”

Baz and I grimace at one another, and I take pity on him by changing the topic.

“I’ve been thinking I’d like to meet up with Shepard,” I tell him.

“Who?” He asks, and I realize we never finished that conversation.

“The journalist I met at the Towne Pub,” I explain. “He hinted that he might have a job opportunity for me.”

Baz leans against the kitchen counter. “Doing what?”

“Writing,” I say to his raised eyebrow. “But about things I want, on my own terms.”

He smiles. “Sounds perfect. What’s the catch?”

“I’m not sure,” I admit. “Want to come with me to find out?”

“Sure,” He nods. “Set it up and I’ll be there.”

The awkward silence creeps in, and we head back to our separate rooms before we follow either of Mordelia’s options.

  
  


**Baz**

I’d like to say the time apart releases some of the sexual tension, but then I see Simon in the suit I’d given him on his first night and it all comes rushing back to me. The surprise of finding him in Aldovia. The brush of his hand on my freshly-shaved cheek. The flutter of my stomach watching him get along with Mordelia.

The way the fabric of his trousers hugs his ass.

Am I an idiot for trying to resist him, now that I know he wants me as much as I do him?

Only, I don’t want Simon for one night. Everything I learn about him makes me realize he’s someone I could easily picture spending the rest of my life with.

Except I don’t get that happy ending. Not in a world where I want what’s best for Aldovia. Because, despite how much I want Simon, I’ll always love Aldovia more.

No matter how close I want him, I have to keep him at arm’s length.

**Simon**

Curse the world that puts me in the same room as Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch in a tuxedo but makes him forbidden to touch.

I spend most of the party biting the inside of my cheek, drawing blood just to stop myself from imagining me ripping the fancy buttons off his fancy suit. Pulling off his tie and using it to secure him to a chair, so he’ll fucking stop running from me.

My hopes that my desire goes unnoticed is shot to shit when Fiona catches me biting my lip when Baz bends over to pick up a napkin a guest has dropped.

“Cool it, boyo. You’re liable to start drooling soon,” She warns.

Then, Baz looks up at me, catches my stare, and quickly turns away.

Fiona gives me a once over, and then drags me by my arm to the nearest vacant room.

“What are you doing with my nephew?” She pushes me up against the door, a pocket knife at my throat before I can swallow in fear.

“Whoa, hold up!” I beg. “I’m not doing anything with him-we’re friends!”

“Friends, my sweet ass,” She says. “Or rather, his sweet ass, if the way you look at him is any indication.”

The door handle jiggles behind me, followed by a faint knock. “Let me in, Fi,” Baz whispers.

She glares at me, and points her pocket knife at a chair. I follow her command, sitting down heavily, my head in my hands. Going from aroused to threatened has my head spinning; BDSM is not my kink, despite my fantasies about tying Baz to a chair.

Baz walks in the door, and I look up. “What’s going on here?” He asks.

“I caught your boy ogling you, which, I mean, why wouldn’t he? You’re a Pitch, after all,” Fiona says.

Baz rolls his eyes. “Go on?”

“And,” Fiona continues. “I wouldn’t have been worried, until I saw the way _you_ looked at _him_.” She sighs. “Do you two know what you’re doing?”

We look at each other, then quickly look away.

“God, you two are awful. Have you no discretion?” She says.

“You have no idea, Aunt Fi,” A voice sounds from the corner, and out pops Mordelia. “You should see them in the kitchen--all hands and hidden boners. It’s _awful_.”

I glare at her, but it’s hard to keep a stern face when I’m so impressed she’s managed to slip in unnoticed. Plus, despite her supposed annoyance, I know she’s mostly responsible for Baz forgiving the fact I was a secret reporter when I re-entered his life.

Fiona trains a stern eye on Baz. “What will Malcolm say when he finds out?”

“When he finds out what?” Another voice says, and Jesus, who else is hiding in this room?

**Baz**

It all goes to shit when Lord Malcolm arrives. My father, the harbinger of my failed love life.

“Father, it’s not what it looks like,” I say, though I’m not sure of the shape of reality by this point.

He raises an eyebrow, and despite my years of practice I have yet to sharpen the act as well as him. “Then what is this?”

God. Where do I start?

“Let Mordelia and Fiona go; they don’t need to witness this,” I command.

The girls open their mouths to protest, but Malcolm nods, and they know better than to disobey the Regent. Though Fiona roughly bumps his shoulder when she heads out the back door.

When it’s just the three of us, I decide to tell the truth. “Simon is helping me formulate a press strategy.”

“Baz…” Simon says, his gaze intent on me. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, and I don’t have time to try.

“ _Baz_?” Malcolm repeats, and, shit, I should have thought about this. “Since when does Mordelia’s tutor refer to you in such a casual manner?”

I sigh. “I’ve known Simon for years. We had a class together at NYU.”

Malcolms eyes narrow. I have a feeling I know what door he’s sniffing, and, despite his accuracy, I can’t let him get distracted.

“Simon’s a reporter.”

The betrayal on Simon’s face is painful, and I hope he’ll trust me through this. At least he keeps his mouth shut while I try to explain.

Malcolm turns to Simon. “Everything you hear in here is off the record. Do you understand me?”

I can tell Simon’s holding back an eye roll. “You don’t have to worry about me betraying your son’s trust, Lord Malcolm. I haven’t done so in the over two years I’ve known him, and I don’t plan to.” He pauses. “And besides, as of this morning I’m no longer an employed reporter, so I’m hardly a threat.”

“That makes you all the more dangerous,” Malcolm says to Simon, before turning his attention to me. “Please explain, Baz. Sooner rather than later,” He threatens.

“He’s had the means and ability to ruin my reputation for years, Father. He hasn’t done so.” Then, I add, “We should trust him. I do.”

Simon’s face softens a bit, and I think he’s starting to understand the plan.

“Give me one reason why,” Malcolm commands.

“He’s known about me for years, and he never went to the press, despite the fact he _is_ the press. God, he never even told another soul!”

“Well, I did tell my adopted mom,” Simon admits, and curse this man’s integrity.

“Ok,” I add. “He told one soul when he first found out. His mother.”

“Actually,” Simon says, and I groan internally. “I didn’t tell her until recently. When I got the assignment to cover you.”

I suppress my annoyance at his inadvertent admission, and try to focus on the positive. “See, Father? He kept this secret _from his own mother_ for years. Can we trust him now? He’s a complete boy scout.” I shake my head. “No, worse than that. He’s basically one miracle shy of full sainthood. Father, if you can trust anyone, you can trust Simon.”

“Maybe,” Malcolm says, and I’m shocked we’ve gotten him this far. “Tell me more about this assignment.”

Curses. I was hoping we’d skip past that. Before I can redirect Malcolm’s attention, Simon speaks up.

“Davy Llewelyn at Watford Publishing sent me here to cover Baz’s decision on whether or not to take the throne. But it was never my intention to share anything Baz wasn’t comfortable with letting the public know. And, when Davy made it clear it was either bring him dirt on Baz or get fired, I chose to quit.” 

I try not to let it show that this is news to me, but from the look on Simon’s face, he’s caught my surprise.

“Sorry, Baz. I didn’t tell you that part. I didn’t want you to feel guilty about my decision to quit. It was my choice, and I’d make it a thousand times over in a heartbeat. Your privacy is worth more than a job.”

“Even your dream job?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

He smiles. “It’s not a dream job if I have to compromise my integrity to keep it.”

I regret having this heart-to-heart in the presence of my father, especially because I’m trying to avoid him catching on to the romantic undertones, but I look up and realize Lord Malcolm has lost the thread of Simon’s confession.

“Davy Llewelyn,” Malcolm says, mostly to himself. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that name."

“You know him?” I ask, and god if this whole situation doesn’t keep getting weirder.

Malcolm nods. “He was the head of a pro-democracy movement nearly thirty years ago. Started a publishing empire to further his political ambitions.” He closes his eyes. “It was his reporter driving the vehicle that drove your mother off the road the night of her death.”

I gasp, and before I can exhale again, Simon’s right at my side, holding me up. “Baz,” He whispers. “Maybe you should sit down for this?”

I nod, and let him lead me over to the chair he’d just vacated. Malcolm watches with a blank look on his face, but stays silent.

**Simon**

The tangled web of this saga has started to overwhelm me, but the journalist inside can’t help but marvel at the coincidences.

Or, the maybe not so coincidental coincidences. I’m starting to wonder how out of the blue my job offer from Watford was. Given what I’m learning about Davy, I wouldn’t put it past him.

I keep my hand on Baz’s shoulder, which may be a mistake given the eyes Lord Malcolm keeps giving the gesture, but Baz hasn’t shrugged me off and I’ll be damned if I deny him comfort in the face of Lord Malcolm’s apparent homophobia.

Lord Malcolm turns his attention to me. “Mr. Salisbury, could you give my son and I some privacy?”

Before I can object, Baz beats me to it, placing his hand over mine. “Simon stays, Father. Anything you can say to me, you can say to him.”

I swallow the emotions his defense triggers, and wait for Malcolm’s disapproval. Shockingly, it doesn’t come.

“If that’s what you want, son, he can stay.”

I’m not sure who’s more surprised by this turn of events: me, Baz, or the Regent, but suffice it to say we all sit in stunned silence for a beat before the conversation continues.

Lord Malcolm breaks the silence first. “It began with a protest. Davy wanted more transparency from the parliament. But no one took him too seriously; he was a rebel without an audience, and wasn’t worth the consideration.

“But he got smart. He organized. Found people disgruntled with the status quo. It wasn’t hard at the time. Aldovia’s economy was less diverse then. We were heavily reliant on our natural gas exports, and the UN had just released sanctions on Russia. Which meant more competition and falling prices. Our economy tanked, and we couldn’t support the government services on which our citizens had come to rely.

“We tried cutting the most nonessential services first, but eventually we had to draw back on more popular offerings like health and education. People were unhappy. Davy played off that sentiment, and built a publishing empire on their anger.”

“But he’s living in New York now - why would he leave if he was so successful?” I ask.

Lord Malcolm smiles without joy. “The death of Natasha.”

I can hear Baz’s breath stutter, and I grip his shoulder tighter.

Wrapping his arms around himself, Malcolm continues. “In the aftermath of her death, public opinion swayed in our favor. Despite the change in sentiments, Davy kept publishing negative pieces about us, but society’s regard for him fell. Eventually, he took his empire overseas.”

“And Aldovia?” I inquired. I knew from my research that Aldovia’s economy was rather strong, but I didn’t know how, given this news.

“With the public’s eye on Aldovia, and their sympathy, we were able to draw a number of tech companies with promises of tax shelters,” Malcolm explained. “It’s not something I’m particularly proud of, but it worked in the long run.”

“You did what you had to for your country. There’s no shame in that,” Baz finally speaks up. And when the father and son make eye contact, I know it’s time for me to leave.

I give Baz’s shoulder one last squeeze. “I think maybe the two of you have some things to discuss.”

This time, he doesn’t argue with my departure. But I can tell from the way he watches me leave that he’s grateful. I let that feeling hold me as I leave him with his father to reckon with the weighty past.

**Baz**

There’s not much left to discuss between my father and I. Only words of regret we’ve held onto for too long, and reminders of love we’ve left unsaid out of fear.

“Do you know what you’re doing with this Simon?” Malcolm asks.

I laugh. “Fiona asked me the same question. And, no. He’s the best person I’ve ever met, but there can be no future between us.”

“That’s not true,” Malcolm says.

I glare at him. “I meant it when I said there’s no shame in doing what is necessary for your country. I intend to serve Aldovia in the best way I can.”

“At the expense of your own happiness?” 

I don’t even pause. “ _Yes_.” I breathe in, breath out. “Unequivocally. Yes.”

Malcolm nods. “Then I’ve raised you right.” Then, in a voice so soft I almost don’t hear him, he adds, “So help me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to change the rating to Mature, especially given parts left to come (no pun intended).
> 
> Your comments, as always, are appreciated. Thanks for reading!


	17. A Cabin In The Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz makes a choice, Shepard makes a plan, and then everything changes when Baz and Simon get caught in a blizzard.

**Simon**

When Baz catches me at my bedroom door, I know what he’s planning to say. He’s done flirting with the consequences of him taking the throne. He’s done entertaining the thought of me.

I take pity on his perfect posture and shaky hands, and move past discussing the decision.

“Just because I quit doesn’t mean Davy will,” I start. Baz’s eyes widen, expecting a different conversation no doubt. “When you announce your decision, he’ll want to throw every piece of dirt he’s gathered at you to undermine the beginning of your reign.” Baz recognizes what I’m offering, and his shoulders relax in gratitude.

He nods. “We should meet with Shepard soon,” He says. “Figure out how to set the media narrative.”

“I doubt your accepting the crown will surprise too many people,” I say, and there’s a buzzing in my ears that comes from the sudden racing of my heart. Baz tries to hide his swallow and fails. “But we should find a way to account for your last two years. Explain where you’ve been, and your plan for Aldovia.”

“Yes,” He replies, his voice rougher than normal. “I expect you have a lot of questions for me.”

I smile, and it almost reaches my eyes. “Finally getting to learn your secrets, huh?”

He looks away. “You already know the most important ones.”

I force my back against the door, needing its solid reassurance. But I can’t stop the next question, no matter how softly it comes out. ”Do I?”

He turns back, gray eyes blazing. “You know you do, Simon. You know I’d give you my heart if I could.”

I can’t help myself. I know it’s wrong; I know I shouldn’t push. But part of me can’t help but ask, “Is there any way for you to have us both? Your country, and me?”

He closes his eyes, exhales, and then opens them again. “And you’d be, what? My dirty secret?”

“Only dirty if you want me to be,” I joke, but it falls flat.

Lifting one of his hands to my face, he gently strokes my cheekbone with a thumb. “I wouldn’t do that to you, Simon. Offer you half a life, just because it’s what I must do for myself.”

“I would, though,” I whisper. “Settle for any part of you, rather than be entirely without.”

“You say that now,” He says, releasing my face. I watch his hand fall and curl into a fist by his side. 

“And I’ll keep saying it.”

“And in ten years?” He asks. “Twenty? What will you say then?”

“I dunno,” I grin. “Keep asking me.”

He frowns. “You’re worth so much more than what you’re offering.”

“Let _me_ decide what I’m worth,” I growl.

“I can’t,” He says. “Not when you keep selling yourself short.” He sighs. “It’s late. You should go to bed.”

“This isn’t the last time I’ll offer this,” I promise, and the words come out stronger than I feel.

His eyes scan my face, searching for something. I’m not sure what he finds, but in a small voice, he concedes, “No. I don’t expect you’ll give this up.” A look of sadness flickers over his face. For him or for me, I can’t tell. He leaves before I decide.

  
  


**Baz**

Simon is right, about Shepard that is. We invite him to the castle the next day, and within minutes I can tell he’s a man of integrity. Despite the fact he’s shown up at the royal castle in a “Mothman is Real and He’s My Boyfriend” t-shirt.

It’s not difficult to negotiate an agreement; Shepard is more than willing to let us dictate terms. His only stipulations are that he be allowed to conduct fact checking himself, select his own editor, and retain final say over what goes to print. I’m displeased with the last capitulation, but Simon convinces me to let it go.

“Any journalist of integrity would demand that, Baz. It’s a mark of his professionalism.”

Then, Simon and Shepard talk shop.

“We should take advantage of the multi-faceted nature of your site,” Simon suggests. “In addition to the hard news pieces of what Baz wants for Aldovia, we should give them a sense of who he is, showcase his talents for music and fashion.”

I try not to flush under Simon’s praise, which I try to remember is being given in a professional setting.

“You’ve been checking out my site.” Shepard grins.

Simon frowns. “Of course. Did you think I wouldn’t do my research?”

Shepard shakes his head. “Sorry dude. I didn’t mean to insult you. Only, it’s always nice to know people are reading.”

Raising his eyebrows, “500,000 unique hits per month, and you’re still flattered by my readership?”

Shepard shrugs. “I’ll never get too big to appreciate my site being reviewed by someone I respect.”

I can tell Simon wants to explore that line further, but he redirects to the brainstorming. And he wonders why Shepard would respect him.

Eventually, they settle on a series of interviews and videos. I stop paying too close of attention when I realize listening to Simon means working against my strong inclination to watch his mouth. Which, given my own boundaries, is a terrible idea.

“Baz?” Simon interrupts my daydreaming. 

I look up at him. “Hmm? What?”

He smiles. “Does that sound good to you?”

I have no idea what I’m agreeing to, so I give a generic answer. “I’m sure whatever you and Shepard have planned will be fine by me.”

Simon nods and turns back to Shepard. “Ok, so get that nude photoshoot set up as soon as possible.”

“Wait, what?” I react.

Then, the two bastards laugh.

“I knew that’d wake you up,” Simon grins. “Now that I have your full attention, I was hoping you’d play your violin for Shepard. He was thinking he’d capture some video of it, and use it to tease the series.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You really think people will want to watch this?”

“Oh yes,” Shepard and Simon say at the same time, Shepard giving a cheeky grin while Simon turns red.

I decide not to ask for details.

Shepard records me playing, and then lets Simon and I watch the footage from his phone.

“See,” Shepard points. “We’ll avoid showing Baz’s face, to generate some mystery.”

I frown. “The real mystery is why shots of my ass feature so prominently in a video about classical music.”

Shepard blinks. “Baz, the video is definitely not about your musical talent.”

Then, it’s my turn to blush.

**Simon**

For someone as attractive as Baz, it’s highly amusing to watch his discomfort with being viewed as such. Or, it would be amusing if my heart didn’t clench everytime I looked at him. When I remembered how solidly he’d set himself off-limits to me.

Eventually, Baz tires of shop talk, and leaves while Shepard films B-roll of the castle.

“Are we going to talk about the Bigfoot in the room?” Shepard asks.

“No,” I warn.

He shrugs. “Whatever you say, man. Just don’t let it interfere with your work.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible,” I admit.

He studies my face. “I’m not asking you to deny your feelings, Simon. Quite the opposite, in fact. The process of Baz becoming King is an interesting story, and I’m certain it will sell. But the story of how you fell in love with Baz? That’s the writing of your lifetime.”

“I’m not in love with Baz,” I lie. I think. It’s too soon for those words. Isn’t it? But then again, Penny saw it. And now Shepard...

He frowns. “Like I said. Don’t let it interfere with your work. The only way you’ll ever become the writer I suspect you are is if you confront the truth head on. No hesitation.” He places his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t give up on that story just yet. I suspect there are still blank pages left to fill.”

I want so desperately for his words to be true. But hope’s not an emotion I can afford right now.

Once the schedule of content is set, Baz reviews the plan with Lord Malcolm and Lady Daphne. It’s weird how everyone knows my secret now. Even weirder is the fact they’ve all accepted me with minimal grief (Mordelia plays a large part in the approval, arguing that, instead of being mad at me, they should be embarrassed that a fourteen-year-old girl figured it out first, which does go a long way in cushioning the blow).

Over the course of a day, I interview Lord Malcolm, Lady Daphne, and Mordelia about Baz and the importance of what’s about to happen. And if some not so royal questions get asked, no one seems to bat an eyelash. In addition to learning what responsibilities Baz will undertake as King, I also learn that, as a child, he refused to eat from a plate with even one single pea on it, once rehabilitated a squirrel who’d been injured by a car, and used to perform interpretive dances to Spice Girls’ “Wannabe.”

Journalistic integrity be damned: that last point is _definitely_ going in a story one way or another.

The following day, Shepard sets Baz up with a professional photographer to catalog his unique sense in fashion. I can tell Baz wants to invite me along, but I encourage him to bring Mordelia instead. The girl deserves some fun for all the drama Baz and I have put her through with our hot/cold/whatever. When they get back, I can tell my choice was right. They both seem lighter for the activity.

Then, all that's left is for me to interview Baz. We’ve put it off for two days, but it’s now December 19th, and we have five days before the articles start running on the 24th, and the interview with Baz will launch the series.

I find Baz’s bedroom, and knock on the door.

“Come in!” He shouts through the door.

“It’s me,” I call out as I enter.

He walks out of his bathroom, white shirt unbuttoned, trousers riding low on his hips, toweling his hair. “Simon, hi.”

I keep my eyes trained on his face, and not the droplets of water that trail down his chest.

“Hey, are you ready for the interview?” I ask.

He turns his back to me and buttons up his shirt. “As I’ll ever be. Just let me hang up my towel.”

When he comes back, he’s fully decent, shirt tucked in, hair falling in damp waves. Stunning, despite the close-off look on his face.

“How do you want to do this?” He asks, and I very pointedly do not look at his bed.

“Probably a good idea if we speak somewhere else,” I say.

He has the decency to look embarrassed. “A walk, perhaps? I could show you my mother’s cabin.”

“Her cabin?”

Baz smiles. “She has a small one-room cabin set in the forest where she used to go when she needed to work in isolation. Can get a bit crowded in the castle sometimes.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh yes, the giant castle with its many, many rooms. Very crowded,” I snark. Then, I remember we’re talking about Baz’s mom, and I wince. “I mean. I guess I can see that. I often find new scenery can be helpful to the creative process.”

He nods. “You’ll probably want some warmer clothes,” He suggests.

“Ok. Meet at the back gate in 10?”

I hope I’ve bundled up sufficiently. Living in New York, the winter gets cold of course, but without the skyscrapers, Aldovia is a different sort of cold. Less damp and windy, but with lower temperatures. 

Gesturing at my hat, scarves, gloves, and jacket, I ask, “Think I’ll be warm enough?”

Baz looks me over and nods. “I think that’ll do.” He looks like he’s stepped right out of a fashion magazine, despite the layers. I manage not to comment, but there’s a small smirk on his face like he knows I appreciate the view.

God, will this ever get easier?

As we walk, we start off with his childhood. Lord Malcom had covered this as well, but Baz fills in the gaps with some choice memories. What it was like to play on the castle grounds. His childhood friendship with Dev. The magic and challenges of growing up royalty.

Then, we talk about his boarding school experiences, which are new to me. Again, Dev features heavily. But so do themes of loneliness and confusion. Being simultaneously adored and envied by his classmates. We don’t touch on Baz’s sexuality, but it’s in the background. I imagine how hard it must have been to hide such a vital part of himself while living in the spotlight.

Which leads to his rebellious phase. Baz uses words like “pressure” and “expectations” to explain what led him to play the role of insufferable playboy. We don’t talk about why he chose to act out in such a stereotypically hereosexual way, but he does express regret at the people he’d hurt. Especially how the media attention affected his relationship with his parents.

“They didn’t understand what had happened to the sweet boy they’d raised,” Baz says. “And I didn’t know how to tell them I was equally confused.”

His grades never suffered, but the media attention disrupted his schooling in other ways. The paparazzi always love a bad boy, and they camped outside his classes. His school sued for privacy violations, his family hired additional security, but nothing could throw the wolves off their scent.

“Tell me about the night your mother died,” I prompt.

By this point, we’re deep in the woods, following a trail only Baz can see. He leans up against a signpost and sighs.

“Do we have to do this?” He begs.

I swallow the part of me that wants to protect him. “We do.”

He nods, and continues moving forward. “The school eventually got fed up with the attention, and wanted me to find another means of education. They suggested private tutoring. My parents seemed inclined to follow the advice; I think they hoped if they could bring me home, they could better control my rebellion. Of course, I was outraged at the suggestion. For all of my faults, I was a perfect student. I only ever acted up outside the boundaries of the school. I thought it unfair that the school would kick me out for what I did on my own time.”

He shakes his head. “Of course, fairness was never the point. And they had good reasons. Despite the fact I kept my rebellion outside of the classroom, my actions still reflected poorly on the school.” He smiles sadly. “And on my parents. And on me.”

He continues. “Needless to say, my parents and I got in a huge fight about it. For years, I’d been hinting my reluctance to take the throne. Saying I wasn’t built for the responsibility of ruling. But that night?” He exhales. “That night I said I hated Aldovia. That I’d never be King. That Dev could have the crown; he certainly wanted it bad enough. My mother screamed at me for being ungrateful. That others would die for the opportunities I wanted to throw away, for nothing more than a boyish rebellion.”

Clearing his throat. “Many other things were said as well,” Baz explains, giving me a look that tells me what isn’t being said. That he’d confessed to his parents that he was gay.

“They didn’t take it well,” He adds, and I can sense the residual hurt and rejection he must have felt. Along with the guilt that this conversation had been the last one his mother and him had shared.

“And what happened next?” I prompt, hating myself for pushing. But I have to do this right, no matter the pain.

“She left,” Baz says.

“Your mother left,” I clarify. “Where did she go?”

He looks out into the forest. The wind picks up a bit, and a light dusting of snow starts. Underneath his woolen hat, his hair ripples in the wind. I can see the white snowflakes caught on his charcoal coat. He looks sad and beautiful.

“My mother often liked to go for drives to clear her head. When she wanted to put her head down and do the work, she went to the cabin. But when she needed to see a problem from all sides, she’d get behind the wheel.

“Our security hated it, of course. So she rarely did it. In fact, at the time, I remember wondering when was the last time she’d been out for a drive. Even before her car had spun out, I felt guilty for pushing her to that point. For being the reason she needed to escape.”

His shoulders hunch up, and for a second, he looks like a boy, hurt and alone. Betrayed by himself, and a world that couldn’t accept him as he was. 

“She didn’t need to escape, Baz. You said it yourself. She needed to see the situation from another perspective. Yours.”

“I don’t know if that helps,” He says.

I resist the urge to reach out to him. “Intent matters. It matters that she wasn’t driving away because of anger. She was trying to find a pathway back to you.”

“You don’t know that.”

I shrug. “No. I don’t. But neither do you.”

He shakes his head, and I hope he’s not blocking my words without giving them a chance to sink in. He wraps his arms around himself. “Anyways, the whole world knows what happened next. It’s not something I really want to recall.”

I let him off the hook. Any detail at this point feels voyeuristic, and that’s not the point of the story.

“What happened after her death?”

“I’d like to say her death made me realize the fleeting nature of life. That it taught me the error of my ways, and put me back on a path to goodness. But things only got worse. Now, the thing I’d feared, the crown, was closer than ever. What had become abstract now had a timeline. Five years. I resolved to pack as much living into the space as I could realistically manage.

“Dev was happy to assist, of course. He always liked a good party. After graduation, we went on a years-long bender. I mean, we came back occasionally. Christmas at the orphanage, the anniversary of my mother’s death. I didn’t completely abandon Aldovia, but I didn’t really embrace it either. Then, Father met Daphne.

“Despite what the press said, I liked her from day one. I could tell she was good for my father, and I liked Mordelia instantly as well. I started to cut my trips abroad shorter, wanting to spend time with my new family. By then, I was older and more experienced. Still uninterested in the responsibilities laid before me, but less angry about them. I was starting to wonder what I wanted my life to become, other than one party after another.

“I don’t think Dev understood. I still would have given him the throne in a heartbeat if I felt like he wanted it more than me. I mean, he wanted it more than me. That much was clear. But it wasn’t because he wanted to serve the people of Aldovia. I honestly didn’t know why he wanted it so badly. I think I was waiting for the day he could give me a good enough reason, then take the burden off my shoulders.

“But it started to sink in that that would never happen. Then, we went to Ibiza and everything changed.”

“What happened in Ibiza?” I ask, but I know I’m not going to get the whole story.

The look on Baz’s face confirms my intuition. “Mistakes were made. Expensive ones. And my friendship with Dev was the largest casualty. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive him for what he did.”

We pause for a second, and drink from water bottles Baz brought. The snow’s falling harder now, and visibility starts to decrease. “Are we close to the cabin?” I ask.

Baz nods, and puts away his water. “Not too much longer now.”

“So where does this leave us?”

“New York,” Baz replies, with a wry smile. “Father thought, given the circumstances in Ibiza, that it was best if I dropped off the radar for a bit. He figured the states were as good as any place for me to hide out.”

“So you thought you’d take a course in science fiction as literature?” I poke.

He laughs. “Yes, well. I may have been drunk when I registered.”

“How come you stayed in the class?”

Baz blushes. “Don’t ask me that.”

I bite my lip. “Sorry.” My heart skips a beat. Stupid feelings.

“And after New York, you truly did drop off the radar. What happened there?”

Baz sighs. “Let’s just say, the people I met at NYU inspired me to do some soul searching. I realized I was ready for a life with purpose. Only, I didn’t know what direction to take. I knew then I couldn’t give up the throne, now that I was certain it should remain out of Dev’s hands. But I still wasn’t ready to accept it, either. Instead, I focused on the charity I’d be asked to pick for my first year as King. I didn’t know much about non-profits, other than the orphanage. Staying in the states made sense, because as long as I stayed off the club scene, no one seemed to care that I was royalty. So I went charity-hopping.”

“Charity-hopping,” I repeat.

“Very glamorous, I know,” Baz jokes. “I worked with animal shelters, got a few nasty cuts from some cats who did not enjoy being groomed. Helped with the Red Cross during some natural disasters, and saw people who’d lost everything sacrifice their time to serve others. But what I enjoyed most was working with shelters for homeless teens. Most of the teens were LGBTQIA, and I appreciated being able to contribute to providing them with a safe home as well as resources to follow their dreams.

“That’s the charity I’d considered picking, instead of my mother’s orphanage. Only, there isn’t one in Aldovia, and I didn’t know how to get one started. Plus, I liked the idea of honoring my mother’s legacy.”

“I know,” I reassure Baz. I try on a lighter topic. “And no one recognized you?”

“A few,” He admits. “But the beard helped.”

“Ah,” I laugh. “The infamous beard.”

He fake-pouts. “And here, I thought it was rather distinguished.”

“Very,” I mock, and he sticks his tongue out at me.

I’m not sure how this next question will go down, but I have to ask. “And what would you do? If you weren’t King?”

“Simon,” He warns. 

“Any good reporter would ask the question, Baz.”

He sighs, rubbing his arms and shivering. “The weather is picking up,” He says gazing up at the snowfall. “I’m starting to worry.”

“Don’t deflect. Answer the question.”

“Seriously, we sometimes get these bizarre pseudo-blizzards. They can spin up from nothing, and reduce visibility to zero. We wouldn’t be able to see our own noses, let alone the cabin. What we’re wearing would hardly protect us.”

I’m tempted to call him out for his blatant efforts at changing the topic, but I notice the temperature has dropped significantly, and the direction of the wind has changed in addition to picking up. I look back at our footprints in the snow, noticing that they’re nearly covered with fresh snow already.

“I’m beginning to think you’re not just avoiding my question,” I admit.

Just then, the wind starts to wail. We almost topple in its wake.

“How close is that cabin again?” I ask.

“Close enough for comfort, but not so close that we shouldn’t get a move on,” Baz replies.

The conversation ends while we pick up the pace. Our feet start to sink heavily into the snow, making it a challenge to walk. Then, there’s a loud crack, and we turn to see a tall pine tree fall in the woods behind us.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

“Exactly,” Baz agrees.

The wind bites through our woolen peacoats, and our clothes start to freeze with condensation as the precipitation changes from snow to ice.

“I think I see the cabin up ahead,” Baz calls out over the wind.

I nod, trusting him, although how he sees anything in the storm is a mystery to me.

We trudge onward, shivering as our clothes turn into almost solid blocks of ice.

“Almost there,” Baz shouts, his teeth chattering. 

Each step is a feat of perseverance. My legs are lead, and I can’t feel my feet at all. I’m getting a headache from the cold, and there are icicles in my eyelashes. 

Then, I, too, see the cabin.

Spotting shelter gives me the rush of energy I need to make it to safety. Baz follows right behind me, and we huddle on the cabin’s porch while Baz fumbles with frozen fingers to unlock the front door.

“Take your time,” I shiver.

“Oh shut it,” Baz mumbles. “Ah hah!” He shouts, as he manages to get the cabin open.

I push him through the front door, taking a brief moment to survey the space. There’s a queen-sized bed against the center back wall, next to a fireplace with a small couch in front. On the other side of the bed, there’s a small kitchenette with a hot plate and cabinets. Across from the bed, there’s an elegant writing desk and boxes.

“We have to get these wet clothes off before we catch hypothermia,” I say.

“Do you hear yourself?” Baz asks. “Have we walked into a romance novel?”

“Can we please warm up first and debate cliches later?” I ask, stripping off my hat, gloves, jacket and shoes by the front door.

Despite Baz’s initial objections, he follows my lead and it’s not long before we’ve both stripped down to our boxers. Then, we lay our wet clothing out to dry on the couch. Baz kneels down at the fireplace to light it. I eye the teapot before deciding that, while a hot cup of something appeals, I’d rather curl under the covers of the bed to warm up. That way I can hide from the vision of a half-naked Baz making fire. I add ‘cave man’ to the long list of unattractive things even Baz can make sexy.

From my position on the bed, I can’t really see the fire, but I do hear the soft whoosh it makes when the kindling finally catches ablaze. Shortly after, I feel the shift of the mattress when Baz joins me.

“Is this the part where we share body heat to stay alive?” Baz fake-whispers from the far side of the bed, but he’s still shivering from the cold, as am I.

I roll my eyes. “Shut up and get over here.”

He scoots a millimeter closer to me.

“A little more,” I command in a low voice.

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” Baz says, but he moves toward me all the same, until we’re inches apart, still not touching.

At this point we’re staring into each other’s eyes, not knowing if we should take this any further. I can feel the lines Baz has drawn start to blur. It was hard enough before, but having him share his secrets has connected us in a new way. Plus, I mean, we’re both one piece of clothing away from naked.

I know there’s a long list of reasons it’s a bad idea to make a move, but the list seems to throw itself on the fire Baz started. 

_Fuck it_ , I think as I throw the covers over my head, and Baz follows. The blankets diffuse the fire’s glow, but I can still see Baz. Most of him, at least. Asking me to resist at this point…

I reach my hand across the gap between us, resting it on his chest.

“Simon,” Baz begs, and I don’t know what he wants.

I drag my hand down his chest, watching its movement. Memorizing every pale inch I can see. When it reaches the barrier of his boxers, I look at his face. His eyes are wide, vulnerable. His lips part slightly under my gaze. Shit. Penny and Shepard were right. I think I love him.

“Can I?” I ask.

He nods. “Please.”

I start shifting his boxers down, but it’s difficult with only one hand and Baz has to help. It’s not the most coordinated of efforts, and I couldn’t care less. Because now I have all of Baz in front of me.

“Wow,” I whisper, taking in the view. “You’re absolutely gorgeous.”

“Still not straight?” He asks, with a hint of trepidation.

“Definitely not,” I reply, and then I take the back of his head into the palm of my hand, pulling us together in a kiss. 

At first, it’s tentative. A question we take turns asking, until one of us moans, and then there are only answers. I break my lock on his lips and trail kisses with a hint of teeth down his jawline and neck.

“This is probably a mistake,” Baz gasps as I find a spot he likes at the base of his neck. “There’s no going back after this, and there can be no going forward.”

I growl and push him flat against the bed, straddling him. “Why are you still _talking?_ ” And then I make my way down his torso until I find a surefire way to shut him up.

When I reach my destination of choice, he exhales one last, “You don’t have to--” Before his words turn into a whimper, and then he only has a few phrases left. Things like, “Oh god is that your _tongue?”_ and “Where did you learn that?” and “Don’t ever stop.” Then there are only words like “Please” and “Yes” and “ _Simon_.” 

It’s all a beautiful blur. I’m impatient and so turned on that I take myself in hand until I’m moaning in sync with Baz. Because by this point, there are no more words, only grunts and groans, until he warns, “Simon, I’m--” but the warning is too late and it doesn’t matter because I follow shortly after.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and curl up next to Baz.

“Do you need me to…” He starts, though the offer is somewhat diminished by the way his eyelids droop in post-orgasmic bliss.

“I kind of already…” I answer, and he looks down to see the evidence.

I could just kiss the look of smug satisfaction off his face, so I do.

“Don’t get a big head or anything,” I warn him.

He smirks. “What could I possibly get a big head about? The fact that I’m single-handedly responsible for your big gay awakening, or that sucking my cock makes you so horny you come in your pants?”

Rolling my eyes, “I used my hand, you egotistical bastard.”

He mock-pouts on my behalf. “Sure you did, buttercup. Now take those pants off before you catch hypothermia.”

I laugh, and then he laughs, and then, well, it’s round two. 

Turns out Baz enjoys giving head as much as I do. But, unlike him, I have no plans to lord it over him. At least, not before sleep finds us both.

Later that evening , I regret having not washed my boxers before falling asleep.

“Do you think this cabin has spare underwear?” I ask Baz while inspecting the remnants of last night’s fun. I’ve managed to find a silk robe hanging in the closet, which helps for modesty although it doesn’t provide much warmth. At least the fire is still burning.

Baz gets out of bed, still naked, and starts to dig through the cabin’s drawers. 

I groan. “Can you please put some clothes on? I can’t think when you’re naked.”

Grinning, he raises one eyebrow at me. “That’s exactly my point.”

I throw my hands up, and turn my back on him, trying to distract myself with the contents of his mother’s writing desk.

“Here,” Baz calls from behind me, and I feel something pelt my back.

Turning around, I find a pair of black boxer briefs at my feet. I pick it up and inspect the label. “Aldovia’s finest?” I ask.

“You bet,” He winks. “Put it on and make it true.”

“Stop,” I laugh. “You’re an incorrigible flirt.”

He whistles. “Ooh, incorrigible. Big word, planning on including it in your story?”

I pull on the boxers under my robe. “Only if you keep making jokes about my ass.”

“The things I do for Aldovia’s finest,” He says, crossing the room with purpose, only stopping when my back hits the desk.

“And what’s that?” I ask, my eyes daring his.

“This,” He replies, and he bites my lower lip before sucking it into his mouth. Unlike last night, this morning feels like fear and promises. Baz’s fear about what happens when we step outside the cabin. My promise that nothing has changed despite the fact that everything has. 

It’s rough, and it’s heavy, and I won’t give an inch because my whole body itches with the urge to crawl inside his skin. I’m pressed against him, hard lines blurring, and it’s not enough. I want to touch him everywhere. I want his hands on my everything. I need him so much closer. It’s all I can do to finally break away from his kiss. 

“Fuck me,” I beg into his ear. “I need you inside me.”

He groans onto the side of my face. “You can’t just say things like that, Simon.” And he tries to recapture my mouth. I let him succeed for a second, then I pull away.

“Like what?” I pant.

“Like you’re my dreams come true. Like you’re everything I’ve ever wanted. When I can’t actually have you,” Though he rocks hard against me, shaking the desk and dulling the sharp edge of his voice. I feel like I hear a soft _pop_ but I ignore it for the moment.

I grip his hips in my hands, stopping his movements. “You can have me, actually. That’s kind of the point.”

He drops his head onto my shoulder. “For now.”

“Forever,” I reply.

He groans again, his hips resuming their tortuous grind against me. “I hate you.”

“I know.” And then our lips meet again, more gently this time. Less fear, and a better promise.

I grab his hand in mine, and start to lead him to the bed.

“Wait,” He stops. He’s staring at the desk like he’s never seen it before. I turn and look. Close to where we’d been, well, ‘kissing’, there’s a drawer jutting out where one wasn’t before.

“A secret compartment?” I ask, ignoring the parts of my body that are not at all interested in this uncovered mystery.

Baz nods his head, and walks over to investigate. I curl up behind him, my arms wrapped around his waist, hoping the action feels more comforting than enticing. 

He pulls the drawer open, revealing a stack of documents and a sealed envelope. Spreading the discovery out on the desk, he reviews them for a bit before finally saying, “Legal documents. About Aldovia’s constitution.”

I read the lines of his shoulders, and guess he could use some space. “I’ll grab us some tea,” I offer, and he seems to barely register my voice.

When I come back, he accepts the mug I hand him without thinking. He takes a sip, and I know it’s still at a tongue-burning temperature, but he doesn’t even flinch. He sets the mug down on the desk.

“They’re notes from my mother,” He says. “About changing the line of succession.”

“How?” I ask.

He picks up the documents, gently, like they could fall apart with the slightest touch, and takes them over to the bed. I follow, leaving my mug beside his. We curl up together over the covers. I think Baz has forgotten he’s still naked.

“Here,” He points out, and I try to read along. “It says that the King or Queen has the right to designate an alternate form of succession through marriage.”

“I don’t understand,” I say, because I’ve never been good at legal documents. Honestly, I didn’t even read the stack of contracts I signed before taking the tutoring gig.

He seems unphased by my legalese illiteracy. In fact, Baz hasn’t looked at me at all since we’d found the secret drawer. Holding the contents of the sealed envelope tightly in his hand, he says, “I think it means we can argue in court that my mother was planning to assign the right of succession to my father.”

“You mean, give away the crown? I thought you couldn’t do that.”

Shaking his head, “I can’t, but according to these notes, my mother could.”

I still don’t know what he means. Luckily, Baz seems to need to explain it to himself as well as to me. 

“See, the line of succession has been set through the Pitch family. My father’s a Grimm, so even with my mother dead, the line carries on through her first-born, and then so on.”

“Ok,” I respond, though my input hardly counts.

Baz continues. “But what this interpretation says is that, under certain circumstances, the King or Queen can name their spouse as heir.”

“Instead of their first born.”

“Exactly,” Baz breathes.

“Would that mean the line of succession could continue under your father?” I ask.

“I think so. If this holds up in court, the twins could be next in line.”

“Not Mordelia?”

Baz shakes his head. “I don’t think so. She’s not my father’s biological child.”

“If he adopted her?”

“Maybe, but you’re missing the point. The point is that my mother wanted to give me the option. She wanted to make sure that, if for some reason she died before my father, I wasn’t the default heir.”

“She wanted to give you a choice.”

And finally, _finally_ , Baz looks at me. His face widens into a grin. “Yes. If this letter holds up in court, it means I can _choose_.”

Before I can return the smile, I’m gathered up in Baz’s arms.

“I can choose,” He whispers against my neck, as much to himself as to me.

“You can choose,” I reply, and I hug him with all the love I have in my heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely my favorite chapter of the whole story. The plot is starting to wind down; like Baz, I can see the cabin in the woods. We're almost there, so bear with me.


	18. A New Heir-a (maybe)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after includes snowmobiles, Mordelia's snark, and a father-son heart-to-heart.

**Baz**

The weather has settled, but I’m not ready to let reality into the cocoon we’ve built in the midst of a freak snow storm. Not ready to leave the tangle of limbs and blankets in which Simon’s captured me. I bury my nose in his soft curls, wishing the world outside away. 

“We should text someone to let them know we’re ok,” Simon suggests.

“In a minute,” I reply, letting my hands drift down his back while my teeth find his earlobe.

Simon chuckles. “If they send a search party, I don’t think they’ll appreciate walking in on the scene you’re trying to initiate.”

“Shut up, Salisbury. You made me an offer and I’m coming to collect.”

He presses his hips against mine. “Oh, you’ll collect all right. But maybe we should make sure to ward off interruptions first?”

I groan. “I hate when you making sense means me not getting laid.”

“Considering you’re the one who’s been holding out for days, I think you can wait a little longer.” He presses a kiss to my forehead and throws back the covers, walking over to his jacket to find one of our phones.

I watch the lean muscles of his legs flex, contrasting with the luscious bubble of his ass.

“Oh god,” I whimper.

“What is it?” Simon rushes back, my phone in his hand.

“It’s just,” I sigh. “Now that I’ve seen all of you naked, there’s no way I’ll be able to focus around you even when clothed.”

He smacks the side of my head playfully. “Don’t _do_ that, Baz! You scared me half to death. I thought you’d come up with another reason we can’t be together.”

The tone is light, but his words aren’t. I scan his face. “Do you think I plan to do that?”

“I don’t think you plan to, but I’m not convinced it’s off the back burner.” He finds his discarded briefs on the floor and pulls them up. I try not to pout. “You’ve been the one holding me at arm’s length, Baz. You can’t fault me for defaulting back to that fear.”

“You’re right,” I admit. “On both accounts.”

“Oh,” Simon says, dropping down on the bed. There’s a slight pudge of his stomach over the band of his pants, and I want to bite it. God, we’re talking about my commitment issues, and I’m imagining the feel of Simon’s rare inch of body fat between my teeth. I’m officially disturbed.

“I’m not trying to be difficult,” I explain, tearing my eyes away from the tempting flesh.

Simon sighs, and crawls back under the covers with me. It means I can no longer see his biteable bits, so I settle for touching them instead. I press his bare skin up against mine, and leave my hands grasping at the indent of skin around his underwear elastic.

“I know you’re not,” Simon replies. “But I have to ask the question we’re both avoiding: what happens when we leave this cabin?”

“Once a journalist, right?” I sigh, resigning myself to a world of insightful and inconvenient questions.

Simon laughs. “Get used to it. I’m stubborn, nosy, and observant to a fault. That is, when I’m not too oblivious to function.” He nuzzles my neck. “I just want to keep you, Baz. Is that so wrong?”

A wave of emotion sweeps over me, and my eyes brim with tears. “That’s not wrong at all,” I murmur, stroking the back of his neck. I think but don’t say, _Simon Salisbury, I never want to let you go_.

Instead, I settle for, “I guess it all depends on what happens when we take my mother’s note public.”

“Will it hold up in court?” Simon asks into my shoulder, kissing it gently. “Do you think?”

“God, I hope it does,” I whisper, and it’s the closest I’ve come to a confession of how I’m starting to feel. Because this vulnerable, honest, beautiful man is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. 

I want to keep him, too.

“Come on,” I say, slapping his delectable ass. “Give me my phone. Let me text my father and let him know I’m safe.”

“What time is it anyways?” He asks.

“Oof,” I reply, checking the clock. “Almost midnight. It’s possible the search party is almost here.”

“Well, it’s a good thing none of this looks incriminating,” Simon deadpans.

I scowl, and opt to call rather than text.

My father picks up almost immediately. “Baz! Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Father. I’m with Simon. We were out for a walk when the storm blew in, so we’ve taken shelter in the old cabin.” I look at Simon for a reason why I haven’t called yet, but all he does is mimic a blow job at me. “I’m sorry for not calling earlier, but our clothing was soaked,” Simons smiles into his hand at this, “and I had to wait for my phone to dry out before attempting a call.” He buries his face in a pillow, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. I pinch his ass as punishment.

My father, unaware of the slapstick behind the scenes, sighs with relief. “I’m happy to hear that. I’ll make sure Mordelia knows. Neither of you is injured?”

I eye the bite mark on Simon’s neck when he finally flips over from his mockery of me. “No, we’re perfectly healthy. Just drinking tea and enjoying the fire.”

Simon mouths, “Liar” at me and then licks my nipple, the devil.

“Well stay put,” My father commands. “We’ve experienced several feet of snowfall, so I’m not sure it’s safe to attempt a walk back, given the distance. When it’s light out, we can send a snowmobile or two.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I say, and Simon snuggles closer to me, turning back into the angel I recognize. “We’ve got water, and I think there are some biscuits in the kitchenette. We’ll stay cozy until the morning.” Simon gives me a tight squeeze around my waist at these words.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Malcolm says. I hope he’s not wondering about the sleeping arrangements. I think my father’s coming to terms with my sexuality, given the conversation we had the other day, but there are some images I don’t want him to conjure. Some of which have occurred during this phone call. “I’ll see you both tomorrow. Stay safe, son.”

When I hang up, I turn to Simon. “You bastard. You’ll pay for that.”

Simon’s eyes light up, and he grins. “I certainly hope so.”

The playful mood shifts in the morning. Our clothes have finally dried, so Simon and I suffer through the stiff, slightly smelly dressing of a days-old outfit waiting for our rescue. Drinking stale tea on opposite sides of the couch in front of the fire; we haven’t touched since waking up in each other’s arms.

As we sip, we stick to safe topics, like the articles and media next steps. We don’t mention the whole point of the series is to ready me for a career as King, something we hope to make obsolete through the papers we’ve discovered.

“Do you think it’s enough human interest to share your musical and fashion talents?” Simon asks. “Are there any other hobbies you think would help humanize you?

“Only the blood of virgins that I drink to keep my skin so soft,” I joke, and Simon chuckles.

“We’ll do a recipe/skin care regime article, then,” He banters back.

Despite the jesting, I consider his question seriously. “It might be nice to do something about me and Mordelia. We had fun at the fashion shoot, and I’d like to put the rumors about my rift with her and Daphne to rest.”

Simon nods. “I was kidding about the recipe article, but it was fun watching you two bake together. Maybe we could do a video where the two of you make something?”

“The only thing we’ve ever baked have been your recipes, Simon,” I admit. “Could we do something with the three of us?” 

He frowns. “I don’t know. I’m writing the articles about you. It may not be professional.”

“So ask Shepard. See what he thinks.”

A knock at the door shakes Simon and I out of our seats.

“Prince Basilton?” A voice calls out.

“Baz and Simon! Stop shagging and come outside!” Mordelia yells.

We wince at each other.

“Too soon?” Simon whispers, and I chuckle. It’s just enough to break the tension, and I’m grateful for him. 

I open the door and am immediately tackled by Mordelia.

“Baz!” She shouts into my ear. I wrap my arms around her while silently lamenting my brief hearing loss. 

I’m just about to tell her I’m ok, when I hear her whisper. “Maybe you should have done something about the bed?”

I release her from my arms and look backward. Staring at the bed, I’m wondering what she’s seen, until I realize: both sides of the bed look equally slept in. It’s clear Simon and I have shared it.

I deflect as best I can. “It was cold, Mordelia. The fire barely kept the cabin warm. We had to share our warmth.”

“Uh huh,” She snarks, one eyebrow raised. I regret ever teaching her that move.

It’s too instinctual to look at Simon for his reaction, and I catch my mistake as soon as it happens. The instant our eyes catch, the mood of the room shifts.

Apparently, security guards can smell sex.

One of them shifts in his stance. “Uh, Prince Basilton? Maybe it’s best we leave?”

The other one chimes in, “We can have the cleaning crew here in an hour or so to tidy up. No one will be the wiser.”

Groaning internally, I thank my lucky stars for NDAs and the fact not one royal guard has ever defected to the press.

I swallow my pride. “That’s a wonderful suggestion. Let’s all go somewhere warmer.”

The two guards who’ve come to our rescue have only brought two snowmobiles, so Mordelia climbs up on one, forcing Simon and I to share the other. The spare guard stays behind to put out the fire and wait for the cleaning crew.

I glare at Mordelia when I take the handles of our snowmobile. Simon wraps his arms around me, and the look of glee on her face is so obvious I have to shut it down.

“Remember, she’s only fourteen,” I warn her driver, and the look of horror on his face is almost worth the discomfort of feeling Simon’s warmth pressed against mine while trying to pretend it doesn’t affect me one bit.

“Prince Basilton, I would never,” He soapboxes, while scooting forward as far as humanly possible.

And because Mordelia’s evil isn’t limited to my sex life, she winks at me and says, “Oh, but I certainly would.”

She’s either getting coal or a diamond bracelet for Christmas. 

Maybe both.

Back at the castle, Father and Daphne greet us at the front door.

Daphne hugs me, then Simon. “We’re so glad you boys are safe.”

“We were almost to the cabin when the storm hit,” I reassure her. “I promise you: we only shivered for a few minutes.”

Simon nods. “While I’m certain we would have been warmer at the castle, the cabin kept us dry, and we still have all of our fingers and toes.” He wiggles his hands as evidence.

I try not to follow a trail of thinking that includes Simon and fingers by thinking of what we’d found in the cabin. “Can I speak to you alone, Father?”

He gives me a look of surprise, but agrees.

Simon’s hand twitches at his side, and I know he wants to be offering me comfort or coming with me, but this is something I need to do alone. Instead, he gives me a sharp nod, before turning to Mordelia.

“Allright, Mordelia. I need a shower, but once I’m clean, you and I are going to brainstorm some recipes to bake.”

She bounces behind him as they enter the castle.

Daphne gives me another hug, and whispers, “You might want to tighten your scarf, dear.” I must blanche, because she squeezes my arm reassuringly, like maybe my father hasn’t noticed yet.

I take her instructions while I follow my father to his office.

Once inside, we take a seat. I pull out the documents Simon and I found, and lay them on his desk. “I found these in a secret compartment in Mother’s writing desk.”

He inspects each document, his eyes wide and jaw slack. I know he’s not a good enough actor to fake his surprise.

It doesn’t take him long to discern their meaning.

“Is this what you want, Baz?” He asks.

“You know it is,” I respond. “You’re a great Regent, and you’d be an excellent King.”

He blinks. “But it’s not my role, Baz. It’s yours.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, I lean into sincerity. “Father, you know my heart’s never been in ruling. I love Aldovia, and I love our family, but being King has never been my heart’s desire.”

“And what is your heart’s desire?” He asks, his eyes flicking downward to where my scarf covers one of Simon’s marks.

I take a deep breath and pray I don’t blush. “Honestly? I don’t know. But I’d like to find out.”

He nods. It’s not the full truth, but I think he understands what I’m not saying.

“If we pursue this route, you can still be King one day, you know,” He states. “You’re still my first-born, after all.”

“I know,” I reply. “And, if I really wanted it, I’d trust you to do what was right.”

He smiles. “You trust me to hand over power so willingly?”

I laugh. “No, I trust you to at least talk to me about the possibility.”

“Taking this step doesn’t mean you’d be without influence, you know.”

I blink. “What do you mean?”

Leaning forward, “There are many ways you can continue to serve Aldovia without being King.”

“Oh,” I say. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

He chuckles. “I imagine you haven’t had the incentive to consider it. But I was in your position just, oh, a few minutes ago. I thought of many ways I could continue to serve as counsel while you made your own path forward.”

“And what do you think would suit me?” I ask.

“You did well with your charities. Maybe a more official role in that vein?” He pauses. “Maybe something to do with the LGBT community?”

I let out a slow exhale. “Really? That wouldn’t reflect poorly on the family?”

He reaches out and grasps my hands in his. “Baz, it would give me nothing but happiness to see you embrace a cause so close to your heart.” Releasing me, “Especially if you had someone media-savvy to help assist in your new role.”

I drop my head in my hands, the sting of tears threatening to fall. “Is this real?” I ask in a small voice.

“I’d say it’s my Christmas gift to you, but I already bought you one of those stupid hoverboards people keep getting injured on."

I laugh. “You did not!”

He lets out a low chuckle. “No, but I certainly wouldn’t call being the bare minimum of an understanding father a Christmas gift. Now, let me run these papers by our counsel’s office to see if we can get something set in stone before the 24th. On first viewing, I’m optimistic, but keep moving forward with your media plan.” He pauses. “Your Simon and Shepard have a good strategy. Maybe it can be readjusted to leave room in case we’re successful with the courts?"

I nod, and he dismisses me so he can start work on changing the Aldovian constitution.

For the first time in years, I have hope that there’s a future for me in Aldovia that doesn’t mean denying who I am.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I cry when I wrote Simon saying, “I just want to keep you, Baz. Is that so wrong?”
> 
> Yes.


End file.
